The Mask of Storms

Blood and Honor (Book 1)

William Stacey

Copyright © 2017 by William Stacey

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover by Mirela Barbu Design

Contents

Reader Newsletter

Prologue

I. Blood on the Docks

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

II. Blood on the Streets

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

III. Blood on the Hill

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Review Request

William Stacey Reader Newsletter

About the Author

Also by William Stacey

Reader Newsletter

Like free stuff?

Find details at the end of this novel for how you can sign up for the William Stacey Reader Newsletter and stay current on new releases. When you do, you’ll also receive the William Stacey Starter Library absolutely free—two full-length novels and three exclusive short stories.

Prologue

Death was a cloud of dust behind the caravan, driving the small band of camel-mounted men deeper into the sun-baked sands of the Red Desert. In growing terror, the riders lashed at their mounts, cursing them in a futile attempt to gain distance, but surviving this day now seemed unlikely to the caravan leader, Petros Fel. Their mounts were already tired, while those of their pursuers were fresh. Sunlight glinted from the pursuers' lance points as they gained ground. Soon, Fel's own head would sit atop one of those lances.

This wasn't Fel's first caravan. He had successfully led scores of profitable ventures across the Red Desert. Nor was this his first encounter with danger. No man travelled the Hishtari sands without risk. But every other time bandits had threatened them, Fel had ordered a share of the camels cut loose, and the bandits had given up the chase, taking the easier plunder. This time, their pursuers had ridden right past the cargo-laden animals, coming for the men instead. The men behind them hunted blood, not silver, which could only mean one thing: desert tribesmen hunted them, not bandits. Some fool must have riled them up, insulted them in some way. Damn whoever it was!

The desert tribesmen were bloodthirsty beasts, torturing their prisoners; all men knew this. The tales of their cruelty were legendary. Fel's terror spiraled out of control, careening about him like a dust devil. I'm going to die out here in the wild after all, he realized, just as Narula always warned.

They had left behind the rolling, rocky foothills of the acacia-lined trade road for the shifting dunes and sandstone canyons of the desert, which stretched before them now. Water they had, but not nearly enough to cross these hellish sands. Fel shaded his eyes with his hand as he stood in his stirrups, seeking a path out of this disaster. To the east, a vast sandstone canyon shimmered with heat. High above, a pair of buzzards circled, and the wind whistled, caressing his cracked lips. Some leagues beyond the canyon, a curtain of brown stretched across the horizon, turning the bright-blue sky dark.

A sandstorm! Even tribesmen would avoid it.

"We go east!" he yelled to the others.

* * *

They had begun to descend into the canyon just minutes before the full brunt of the storm hit them. They dismounted, leading their exhausted and terrified camels on foot into the shrieking gray nothingness. Speech became nearly impossible in this tempest of stinging sand, and Fel could barely see his hand before his face, let alone a safe path down the canyon's bank. They wrapped scarves over their faces, but it did little to help. All any of them could do was to keep moving forward, praying they'd find shelter. If not, the winds would bury them, not even leaving behind their sun-bleached bones.

At least they wouldn't be tortured to death.

Fel's camel collapsed, throwing him forward to roll down the sand-covered slope. When he finally came to a stop, dust and sand in his throat, he stared in wide-eyed terror at the dark giant now looming over him. Fel scurried back, but the giant remained motionless, glaring down at him. Now, through the blowing sands, Fel saw it was no giant, but a statue carved from the rock face of the cavern wall. A second statue stood across from a set of weathered steps leading down into a dark tunnel opening. Centuries of blowing sand had weathered the faces of the statues smooth, erasing their features so that Fel couldn't tell if they were modeled after men or beasts. Dread filled his heart, but the opening into the canyon wall offered sanctuary.

"Here!" Fel yelled. "Shelter."

At first, he feared the others were too far away to hear him over the howling storm, but then a shape appeared, a man leading a camel. Fel rushed forward, recognizing the terrified face of his youngest nephew, Eld. Others struggled behind Eld, each pulling his camel through the sands. Fel screamed into his nephew's ear, "Get the camels down the steps!"

Eld stopped in place and stared at the stone sentries on either side of the steps. "What's down there?" he screamed.

"Safety. Move."

Eld hesitated a moment longer but then led his camel down the steps and into the tunnel. Fel urged the other men onward, counting each one as he passed. Eight, only eight. He squinted into the maelstrom, seeking stragglers. A dozen men had followed him into the sandstorm. He wanted to scream in frustration, to curse his ancestors, but with no other choice, he turned away and followed the others into the tunnel.

* * *

The tunnel opened into a wide antechamber, sheltered from the sand. They lit torches and secured the terrified camels. Fel stared about himself. Smooth black glasslike stones lined the walls of the chamber, fitting together so perfectly that Fel could just barely make out the seams of each individual stone.

Who builds like this?

Intricate black-and-white tiles in a geodesic pattern lined the floor of the chamber. Fel found himself staring at the mosaic, almost in a daze. He shook his head, moving on to examine the rest of the chamber. A faded mural took up the entirety of one of the walls. Painted with remarkable skill, the mural displayed throngs of worshippers with bizarre catlike eyes, praying before a sun rising in a cloudless blue sky. Unease rippled through Fel. This is not a place of men.

Scattered about the chamber were the rotted remains of ancient furnishings—broken stools and benches. At the rear of the antechamber, a second set of black steps led down, disappearing into darkness. Fel stood at the top of the steps, shivering with fear. Why build here? What is this place?

"Shouldn't be here," Eld whispered from beside him.

"The camels are tended, secured?" Fel asked, already knowing they were, having seen to it personally. As he stared down the dark steps, he inhaled deeply, his fingers drumming over the hilt of his scimitar.

"They are," Eld said softly, an undercurrent of fear in his voice. "But we should stay near the entrance … until the storm blows out."

"What is down there?" Fel asked, speaking mostly to himself.

"Uncle …" Eld whined.

One word repeated itself in Fel's fevered mind: Illthori.

These were Illthori ruins; they had to be. Only the Illthori could have crafted such a place, used stonework so flawlessly. And if true, that meant the possibility of great reward.

The Illthori, a long-dead race of magic-users, had created the most wonderful of relics. Even a non-magical item such as a broken piece of pottery would fetch a handsome price. But if a true Illthori relic—a magical one—could be recovered from this place, this ancient temple, it would make Fel one of the wealthiest men in the empire. Perhaps his ancestors had led him through the sandstorm to this place for a reason. He pulled on his thick black beard, as he often did when given to bouts of uncertainty. Then, his mind made up, he gripped Eld's shoulder. "I'm going to take a quick look."

* * *

None came with him, not even Eld—cowards! He'd share nothing with such men.

With one hand holding a flickering torch and the other his scimitar, Fel descended the steps, setting each foot carefully. The steps descended far deeper than he would have thought possible. Rivulets of sweat trickled down his spine, an unfamiliar sensation in the desert, where sweat always dried in a moment.

After what seemed like an eternity, the steps ended, opening up onto a long arched corridor lined with the same black glasslike stones. Then, impossibly, he heard the distinct sound of rainfall echoing down the tunnel. Even if he weren't in the Red Desert—which almost never saw rain—he must have been hundreds of feet underground by now. He froze, fearing he had somehow passed through a magical barrier into another world. His fear spiked, and the torch in his grip trembled, casting moving shadows over the smooth black walls.

He forced himself to breathe, to become calm. It can't be rain. Stop shaking like a child. You shame yourself and your ancestors. The Illthori have been dust for centuries.

He took a step and then another. With each pace, the sound of rainfall grew. He could even smell the moisture in the air. When he came to the end of the corridor, his breath caught in his throat, and he stood staring in wonder.

Extending before him as far as he could see was a vast natural cavern lit up by the eerie blue glow of lichen that crawled over the walls. From the roof of the cavern, hundreds of paces above him, hung thousands of daggers of stone, some as large as wagons. Water dripped inexorably from the tips of each dagger, falling into a vast black pool that filled the surface of the cavern entirely. Where the drops hit the water, they created ripples that cascaded and intermingled, spreading outward in every direction, distorting the blue glow of the lichen. In the center of the black pool, dominating the cavern, stood a stone pyramid a hundred feet high, its sides lined with patterns and carvings of animal heads. Steps built into the side of the pyramid led up to a smooth summit, upon which stood a vast dark shape, a monstrous winged beast. A shudder of terror coursed through Fel, almost driving him to his knees. Ancestors, help me!

Moments later, when the beast remained in place, Fel realized it was just another statue, albeit a horrifying one.

He remained near the entrance to the cavern for some time, gazing in wonder at the pyramid. Eventually, his greed overcame his fear, and Fel stepped out into the cavern. He moved closer to the edge of the pool, wondering how deep it went.

He stepped into the water, the cold shocking, and began to push his way deeper toward the base of the pyramid. The stones beneath his feet were slick and treacherous, and he slipped, falling backward into the cold waters, dropping both torch and scimitar. Panic welled within him, but a moment later, he realized he didn't need the torch after all. The glowing blue lichen provided more than enough light by which to see.

He squatted down, groping about in the dark waters for his weapon. When his fingers brushed over a slimy sticklike object, he gripped it and pulled it free, staring at it in confusion for several moments until he realized with disgust that it was a bone, a thighbone. Age-blackened and rocklike, it was also twice as long as any bone should have been. He cast it from him in disgust. He reached beneath the waters again, his fingers now trailing over bones everywhere. His revulsion rose. The entire bottom of the pool must be lined with bones. How is such a thing possible? When he found his scimitar, he rose, pushing forward as fast as he could, desperate to climb out of these foul waters. The dark waters reached only as high as his chest before he pulled himself out onto the steps of the pyramid, breathing heavily.

"Grip your courage, man," he told himself, his voice echoing unnaturally within the chamber. "Whatever evil happened here took place long before you were born."

When he thought himself capable again, he began to climb the steps. As he came up onto the top, he nearly fouled himself at his first up-close view of the winged statue he had seen from the entrance.

Unlike those weathered by the elements outside, this one was in perfect condition, flawlessly carved, but the source of nightmares. All black, it was a giant winged demon, possessing a scaled reptilian body with monstrous bat wings swept forward about its bestial form. Its snakelike head sported two twisting horns and an open jaw lined with finger-long fangs. The demon's reptilian arms extended toward Fel, the clawed hands placed together, palms up in supplication. Sitting atop the cupped claws was a white porcelain mask.

He edged closer, dripping slimy water onto the steps. That the mask had been of immense value to the Illthori was obvious—holy even—but was it magical as well? The features on the mask resembled those of a woman, or a child, but the scale was wrong, the eyeholes too far apart and too wide. Bizarre symbols reminding Fel of Fenyir runes were etched along its edges. It was hard to be certain under the glow of the lichen, but the runes seemed to be filled with a glittering substance—gold perhaps? For the first time since entering this underground temple, a surge of satisfaction coursed through Fel. The mask was breathtakingly beautiful. Even if it were entirely mundane—which seemed very unlikely—its value would make a man's fortune for life—for the lives of his children and his children's children.

He tentatively reached a hand toward the mask, keeping a wary eye on the demon's snarling visage. His fingers trailed over it.

Nothing happened.

He lifted the mask away, his fingers trembling.

The stone demon did nothing.

Fel smiled, now chiding himself for his foolishness. The Illthori are long vanished. This treasure is mine.

The mask, light and clearly fragile, felt unremarkable. There was no tingling of ancient magic, no trembling in the earth around him. The mask was no different from any other piece of porcelain he had ever held … well, other than its immense worth. He turned it over, examining its shiny black interior, lacquered perhaps. The two oversized feline eyeholes allowed one to see while wearing it, but the wearer would have to hold it in place. Before he even realized what he was doing, he lifted the mask to his face.

His world shifted.

The temple complex, the pyramid, the cavern … all disappeared. He now found himself soaring over the desert like a hawk—no, he realized, not a hawk, he had no substance—he was the wind, soaring and dipping and devoid of the limitations of flesh. The sensation was beyond exhilarating. No man had ever experienced this before.

Is this what it's like to be a god?

Below him, the sandstorm continued to rage, brown and violent.

He was tired of it, weary of its menace. The storm was an affront to his new divine presence, so he willed it gone. And just like that, the sandstorm began to break up, to ebb and calm. Power and joy surged through Fel.

* * *

Hours later, it was his nephew Eld and two others who found Petros Fel. Eld stared at his uncle, who sat cross-legged atop the pyramid, beneath the outstretched wings of the horrifying stone demon, as if it guarded him. Fel seemed unaware they were there, even when they called out to him, merely whispering fervently to himself. Drool ran down the side of his mouth, into a beard now whiter than salt. In his lap, in gnarled hands covered with liver spots, he held a beautiful porcelain mask. Eld stood before his uncle, his mind reeling. Petros Fel, a man in his late thirties with a wife and young children, was now older than any man Eld had ever seen, his skin lined with deep craters, like sun-baked earth, his eyes clouded over by cataracts.

Eld knelt beside his uncle, his heart hammering as he leaned in closer to make out the man's soft, incessant whispers. "Uncle, what happened?"

"I'm a god," Petros Fel whispered. "A god, a god, a god."

Part I

Blood on the Docks

1

Bors grunted as he lifted the heavy bag of grain from the deck of the cargo ship, letting its contents settle over his shoulders before turning and making his way back across the creaking gangplank. He tossed the sack atop the pile of others on the pier and squinted up at the sun as it began to drop behind the brightly colored rooftop tiles of the city's skyline. Although still hotter than a blacksmith's forge, the desert air would cool when night fell over Port Talos. He groaned loudly, pushing against the small of his back and arching his spine, feeling every single one of his thirty-eight years today. He was too old and too tired for this type of backbreaking labor. His feet hurt, his shoulders hurt, and the sun baked his skull. But he still needed to eat.

"A man endures what must be endured," he whispered.

He had come to Port Talos looking for work as a caravan guard but hadn't found it. The Hishtari had been far more prejudiced and xenophobic than he had realized and wouldn't hire foreigners, let alone those without letters of backing. The only options available to such as he had been work as a dock laborer or starve to death.

He still wasn't entirely sure he had made the right choice.

The last of the sacks of grain unloaded, the other laborers now milled about, waiting for their pay. After six months of working alongside these men under the harsh sun of the Sword Coast, he was starting to resemble them. His skin was tanned, and his long dark hair and beard had been lightened by the sun. Only his gray eyes still gave away his foreign birth. Like the others, he wore the same homespun rough wool tunic and breeches with ankle-high work shoes, held in place with strips of knotted leather—hardly the gleaming polished armor and high cavalry boots he had once worn—but he was no different from the others now, flotsam washed up by the Tempest Sea to gather here in Port Talos, trade city and ass crack of the Hishtari Empire.

"Bors!" Garos called out, waving him over.

Garos, a good-looking young Hishtari man with long light-brown hair, possessed a nearly insufferably pleasant nature. A while ago, Garos had decided that he and Bors were great friends. Bors sighed and ambled over to join them. Garos was a pleasant enough fellow, if a bit needy. If life had yet to kick Garos squarely in the balls, then Bors wasn't going to.

Bors joined the line as the paymaster began handing out coins. While he waited, he gazed out over the colorful Hishtari city built on the crescent-shaped bay. An estuary called the Sun Horn split the city in two, with the northern side containing the temples and estates of the city's merchant elite, while the southern side held the docks, markets, and slums. A thirty-foot-high sand-colored limestone wall circled both halves of the city, with watchtowers placed all along its length at regular intervals. The wall would deter attackers coming from the desert, Bors knew, but would be of no tactical use against a determined seaborne enemy, which seemed to him to be the most prevalent threat. But then, Bors had never been much more than a simple horseman. Who was he to tell the Hishtari how to defend their city?

"You should come with us this night," Garos said, turning to look back at Bors.

Bors shook his head. "I don’t drink. I've told you this before, many times now."

"A drink or two won't kill you."

Bors snorted. "It might. Best if I get a good night's sleep. Better for my back."

"You're not that old, and your back is stronger than any of ours. Besides, a woman would be good for your back as well, could be a pleasant distraction."

Chuckling at the foolishness of youth, Bors gripped the back of Garos's neck and squeezed it, causing the young man to wince and pull away. "Women are many things, my young friend, but they're never just a distraction. But you go, be young and stupid."

Garos laughed, flicking his hair from his eyes. "Come with us." He paused, lowering his voice. "There’s silver to be made this night."

"No one is going to pay a dock rat silver. You'll end up broke and unhappy—if you're lucky."

"This is different. Ilgrad—"

"Ilgrad is a saddlebag filled with horse shit," Bors said, louder than he intended.

The man they discussed, Ilgrad, with his full bushy beard and oversized bulbous eyes, turned about from his place in line several men ahead of Garos and glared at Bors. "I've no quarrel with you. There's no need to insult me."

Bors felt his face heating from more than the sun. "Apologies … the boy's head is full of nonsense."

"Not this day," Ilgrad stated, glancing about. "There is silver to be made this night. You should come. I think you no stranger to rough tasks."

Bors shook his head. "Not for me."

"Suit yourself," mumbled Ilgrad, turning away again and shuffling forward in line.

The conversation died down, and when Bors stood before the paymaster, the man counted out ten copper coins, placing them in Bors's weathered palms. Bors pocketed them, thanking the man and moving away. Ten copper crowns for an entire day’s backbreaking labor, enough for lodgings and watery stew, with a coin or two left over for a bath, never enough to save.

Garos sidled up to him. "You're decided then?"

"I am. But you should stay away from Ilgrad and this work." Bors watched Ilgrad now, sauntering away with a proud swagger. He knew the type of man all too well, always looking for the easy way to do things, the path that avoided hard work. With the right discipline and leadership, such men could become good soldiers, but more often than not, they ended up whipped or jailed. A horde of shrieking children, some little more than toddlers, ran forward to greet Ilgrad, swarming about his legs. Ilgrad's wife stood farther back, waiting with a tired smile on her plump face. A pang of sadness coursed through him as he remembered other wives and children.

"Not even a single cup of wine?" Garos pleaded.

Bors ran his fingers over his eyes, sighing. Then he heard excited yells from the street leading to the market. A carriage pulled by a team of six magnificent white stallions rode past with a young man in brightly colored red-and-blue livery sitting beside the driver. The man threw glittering copper bits into the air, screaming something Bors couldn't make out. A pennant was painted on the side of the carriage, but the throngs of yelling citizens that rushed forward blocked Bors's sight. Was that a rose? Ilgrad's children deserted him en masse, joining the crowd cheering and picking up the copper bits.

"What's that all about then?" Bors wondered.

"You didn't see?" Garos asked. "It was the Lyrian trade ambassador's carriage. I heard about the excitement earlier."

"What excitement?"

"Queen Marina of Lyr has given birth to a second child, a boy this time. Can you imagine the festivities that must be taking place in Lyr? I bet the working girls are giving it away. Not every day a new heir is born." He flashed a smile at Bors. "You're from Lyr, are you not?"

Bors stared at the back of the carriage as it climbed the street leading to the temple district, children chasing after it. A boy? His arms fell to his sides, a thickness in his throat as the carriage disappeared. Garos's smile faltered when he saw the expression on Bors's face.

"I'll take that drink after all," Bors said.

2

The hour was already late when Grottle arrived. The covered wagon rocked under his considerable weight as he jumped down, landing upon the cobblestoned street before the tavern. As the other two men, Corath and Hrandlin, climbed down from the wagon, Grottle glared about the dark street with his one good eye, noting the presence of those in the shadows—prostitutes and beggars. Perhaps mistaking his glance for interest, one of the whores stepped forward, smiling seductively at him as she pulled her dress up, exposing pale white thighs. "Piss off!" Grottle snarled, lunging at her. She scurried back, her eyes wide with fear.

She should be afraid, thinking that he, the famous Beast of Ba'al, would actually pay for the honor of his seed. Once, women had thrown themselves at him. Highborn bitches had moistened under his glance, begging him to ride them, and ride them he did. He had even ripped into more than a few pretty men as well—and afterward, they had actually thanked him for the ploughing. But … those days were gone. Now, Grottle served Kamanth Kul as a hired neck-breaker.

But what a life I lived.

The door to the tavern opened, spilling bright-orange light and raucous laughter into the street. Grottle flexed his meaty fingers, wincing as they popped. At night, when the desert cooled, his joints pained him, almost certainly a result of dislocating and breaking them so many times before in the fighting pits. He wanted to get this business done so he could return to his chambers in Kamanth Kul's estate and sit before a fire, perhaps drink a cup of prune juice to ease his bowels, and then go to sleep to dream of blood, sand, and cheering crowds. He sighed. It would be a long night.

The tavern was a one-story mud-brick shithole with a thatched roof, exactly the sort of dump where dock scum gathered to drink. Such men were not worth a wet fart, but they were cheap. He gripped a meaty ass cheek, pulling on it and blessing the air with the aroma of his feces, smiling at his own private joke.

Corath and Hrandlin approached, doing their best to look menacing but only partially succeeding. Like most would-be toughs, they were only acting the part—all swagger and little gristle. Both men had already helped themselves to the weapons piled in the back of the wagon, taking the best of the lot—two heavy-bladed hackswords, which they now wore strapped to their waists. Grottle doubted either of them could do more than wave the swords about, but posers or not, they would do. Besides, the men they needed to kill this night were hardly warriors. Grottle placed a heavy hand on Hrandlin’s shoulder. "Stay with the wagon. Don’t speak to anyone. Don’t do anything."

Hrandlin nodded.

"We’ll find that fish-faced fuck Ilgrad and his men, bring 'em back out right away. I don’t want to hang about here any longer than I have to. Even the Red Guards might get lucky and stroll by, maybe decide to start askin' questions." As he spoke, Grottle’s fingers trailed over the head of the finely crafted Ascari fighting axe resting in a loop on his belt. It had been ridiculously expensive but worth every silver crown. Crafted from castle-forged steel, its single-bladed head was sharp enough to take off a fly's balls. Its black ash handle, the length of his arm, had been reinforced with steel strips so that it could block even a sword's edge. In skilled hands, the fighting axe would sing in battle, drinking blood and caving in skulls. "Let’s get this done," he said and then shoved the flimsy tavern door wide.

The noise of drunken conversations washed over him—as well as the stench of vomit, spilled ale, and filthy bodies. He stood in the doorway for several moments, letting his eye adjust.

As expected, the tavern was full, with every table and bench occupied. A gaggle of barmaids, young and old, fat and thin, bustled about, clutching mugs of ale or wooden bowls of stew. The conversation lulled at Grottle's arrival—a man his size always drew attention—but he stared sullenly at the customers until they all looked away. Grottle rarely visited taverns anymore. Some drunken idiot always wanted to challenge him and impress his friends. Years ago, a shit-drunk Conarckian sailor half his size had broken a wooden stool over the back of Grottle's head. Grottle had fallen forward, ripping his own eye out against a hook on a wall. Grottle had killed the man, squeezing his scrawny neck so hard his thumbs had ripped through the meat and cartilage, but you can't kill your eye back. So much changes with time, he mused sourly, scanning the smoky interior of the tavern.

A skinny young barmaid, her face marked by acne, her hands holding mugs of ale, paused in front of Grottle. "We’re busy, but if you can find a spot by the—"

Seeing Ilgrad's ugly face near the back of the tavern, Grottle brushed past her, knocking her mugs onto the rush-covered floor.

A dozen men surrounded Ilgrad, sitting at his table or at a nearby bench along the wall, laughing and drinking and pretending they weren’t worthless shit smears. One of the useless monkey scrotums was already passed out drunk, his forehead resting against the table, a pool of drool near his lips. At Grottle's approach, Ilgrad rose and stepped forward, a smile on his stupid bug-eyed face, his hand outstretched. Grottle ignored the hand, looking past the man. "This is it?"

Ilgrad's eyes reflected his embarrassment, but he merely lowered his hand and nodded. "You said a score, that's twelve."

Grottle spit on the floor. "Twelve fighters, you fuckin' fish-eyed pisspot. This lot would likely run from a fight. And this one here"—he indicated the dark-haired snoring man—"doesn't count."

Corath laughed, his hand resting upon the hilt of his hack-sword. Ilgrad looked about at the other men, meeting their sullen stares, his lower lip quivering.

Is the little bug-eyed baby going to cry?

In truth, Grottle thought this sorry lot exactly the sort of men he needed this night. All were large and strong-looking, dockworkers. They'd fight, Grottle knew—poorly perhaps, but what they lacked in skill they could make up for with enthusiasm. And if they die … well, who gives a shit? "Never mind." Grottle snorted, shaking his large bald head. "They'll do."

"Silver, yes?" Ilgrad asked, clearly relieved he wasn't going to look like a fool in front of his friends. "The deal was for ten pieces of silver a man."

"That was the deal, but later—after the work is done and after I have the item my master requires."

"What item?" Ilgrad asked. "Perhaps we can help you find it."

Grottle shook his head. "Lower your voice. I don’t want to discuss anything further here. Let's go. These eleven will do."

"Twelve," said one of the men. Young and good looking, with long light-brown hair, he sat next to the unconscious drunk. "My friend comes as well."

"He’s farting drunk, you idiot," Grottle said.

"He’ll be fine in a bit," the young man insisted. "Besides, he’s a fighter, an ex-soldier. You'll want him."

"Some fighter," Corath snickered.

Grottle was about to turn away, when the young man pulled the collar of the drunk's tunic back, exposing the fading tattoo near his heart of a black stallion pawing the air. Above the stallion, written in Lyrian, was the word 'Honor'; below it was 'Blood.' Even here in Hishtar, men knew the mark of the Argot Heavy Cavalry, Lyr's elite horsemen. "See," said the young man.

Well, how about that, Grottle mused, rubbing his chin. Even drunk, a former soldier, especially an elite one, might be useful. "Fine, bring him, but if he doesn't sober up, he gets nothing."

As he turned and stalked out of the tavern, it occurred to Grottle that the man had probably just paid someone to give him a famous tattoo. But it didn't really matter—soldier or not, there were still enough other men to murder sleeping sailors.

Corath, Ilgrad, and the others hustled after him, piling into the bed of the waiting wagon, two of them carrying the sleeping drunk.

3

Someone kicked Bors in the ribs, and he woke to find a huge bald one-eyed man screaming at him to get up and go murder someone—which, if he were being honest with himself, wasn't an entirely new experience. What was new was the pounding headache and a mouth that tasted as though he had been sucking on a rat's ass. He had never gotten stinking drunk before a battle before.

He sat up, wincing at the sudden sharp pain between his eyes. He raised a palm to forestall the large bald man, who even now drew back a booted foot to kick Bors again. "Wait … wait," he mumbled, trying to clear the alcoholic haze.

How much did I drink?

Everything.

Idiot, as if she'd care.

"Hurry, fool," the bald man yelled. "Get on board and help your friends!"

My friends?

It was dark out, night then, with a half moon shining down. He was back on the docks, the night breeze carrying with it the smell of the sea. A covered wagon sat behind the bald man, who—Bors now noted—carried a fine-looking Ascari fighting axe on his belt. The man was a mountain of quivering flesh and barely controlled rage with the face of a man accustomed to violence: the disjointed bulbous nose, the misshapen ears that looked like swollen vegetables—and the left eye, now little more than white scar tissue. Spit dribbled down the man’s chin, and his eyes practically glowed with outrage.

A man with this many scars would be very dangerous.

"You diseased get of a cross-eyed whore," the man screamed, once more kicking out at Bors and hitting him in the upper thigh, "get your lazy ass up and earn your silver, or I'll kill you myself. Argot Heavy Cavalry, my hairy, pimpled ass!"

"Wait … wait," Bors mumbled, staggering to his feet. "What's that about your ass?"

The man stared at him in confusion. "Are you sun touched?"

Bors reached out, steadying himself with a hand on the man's shoulder, noting the huge slabs of muscle beneath the fat. "I often wonder the exact same thing."

Wooden wharfs ran behind Bors, with fat, dark cargo hulks tied alongside the piers, the waves grinding their hulls against the barnacle-encrusted beams. Then, cutting through his alcoholic fog, he heard the clash of steel upon steel, the screams of wounded and dying men, a sound as familiar to him as the snore of a lover. A cold sweat broke over his skin as his fear burned away the remnants of strong drink.

Not twenty paces away, a battle took place aboard one of the ships tied to the pier, a fat cargo hulk. Men flailed away at one another with clubs and knives or whatever they could lay hands on—in one case, a half-naked man was wildly swinging a wooden bucket at a bushy-bearded, bug-eyed man armed with a cudgel—Ilgrad! Then he recognized others from the docks. Ilgrad and the dockworkers were attacking a ship! Matron's ghost, I've stepped in a fresh pile of horseshit this time. When the Red Guards come, they'll hang Ilgrad and all these other idiots.

Including me.

He looked about, seeking the quickest path from this insanity. Two men he didn't recognize, armed with wide-bladed hack-swords, stood at the base of the gangplank leading to the cargo ship, watching the fighting—or, more likely, making sure the dockhands did the fighting. The ruckus had woken the crews aboard the nearby ships, and Bors saw lanterns flare into life and shadows move about on their decks, but none of the nearby crews seemed eager to help the besieged sailors. It was a hard thing, he knew, to rush toward battle. Only hard training and iron discipline countered that natural resistance.

Warehouses and construction yards bordered the docks, but less than two hundred paces to the east sat the dock slum, a collection of ramshackle huts and tents crammed together. Most dockworkers lived here, spending copper shivers for a canvas roof and a blanket. Now, the noise of the fighting had woken the residents, and torches burned as a crowd began to gather.

Time to go.

As fat as this one-eyed man was, there'd be no way he could run fast enough to stop Bors. He tensed, preparing to dart past the man, when he saw Garos on the ship, avoiding the fighting as he backed away, looking about himself in panic.

Damn it!

The young man dropped his club and bolted for the gangplank. The two men with the hack-swords blocked his path. Garos skidded to a halt but slipped on the wet plank and fell on his ass. One of the men stepped forward, lifting the huge axe-like cleaver above his head with both hands.

"Wait, please!" Garos shrieked, holding his hand out.

Bors bolted forward, but before he could take two steps, a huge fist slammed into his head, smashing him down onto the wooden dock.

The hack-sword swept down, splitting Garos's handsome face in two.

"Now, you get in there and earn your silver, or you'll get the same," the one-eyed man hissed.

Bors, cold rage coursing through him, pivoted where he lay, sweeping his leg out and smashing it against the bald man's ankle, sending him falling onto the dock with a wood-splitting smash. Bors scrambled forward, ramming his knee into the man's groin—once, twice, three times. The man howled, curling up into a ball. The two guards, hearing his screams, ran to help. Bors gripped the fighting axe the man wore on his belt, and pulled it free. He leapt to his feet, instantly gaining an appreciation for the weapon's exceptional heft and balance. Bors was far more comfortable with a long horse sword or lance, but this was far from the first time he had held a fighting axe. He slipped forward, unconsciously distancing himself from the man on the ground, giving himself room to fight. Strength and speed faded with the years, but training and muscle-memory lasted a lifetime. The first man hesitated, stopping himself at the last moment. Bors didn't hesitate; instead, he slipped to the man's right, away from the heavy hack-sword, and thrust with his axe head at the man's neck. The second Bors's axe blade touched the man's neck, he applied pressure with his wrist and yanked the weapon back, severing the carotid artery. An axe could cut as easily as it could hack. Blood sprayed as the man staggered back, dropping his weapon, mouth open in surprise, but Bors was already moving past him to engage the second man.

This man had been the one who killed Garos. He hacked down at Bors, but Bors pivoted, catching and deflecting the man's clumsy blow before ramming his shoulder into him, sending the already off-balance man to fall to the wooden dock. Bors brought his axe down on the back of the man's knee, severing his leg. As he screamed and thrashed, rolling about, clutching his bloody stump, Bors stepped in and split his skull.

Bors assessed the battle on the ship. The fighting still raged, but given enough time, the dockhands would probably win—they were more prepared to kill than the half-asleep sailors they had attacked—but they weren't going to get that time. Even now, Bors heard the pounding of horses' hooves from the west, coming from the warehouse district.

The Red Guard was here.

Bors sprinted for the tightly packed collection of tents and huts that comprised the workers' camp. Just before the first rider appeared, he slowed to a walk and slipped amongst the onlookers, ignoring their stares.

"What's going on?" one asked.

"You tell me," Bors answered as he drifted among them, losing himself in the crowd and the darkness. He moved slowly around them, coming out again near the edge of the onlookers, where he could still see the pier and the ship. "What's happening here?" Bors asked no one in particular and received several incorrect responses ranging from "fire" to a "Fenyir raid."

The Red Guard thundered onto the pier, a half-dozen horsemen followed by scores of footmen carrying long, steel-tipped spears, all wearing the thigh-high padded red gambesons of the guard. The men on horseback, Red Guard officers, no doubt, sat their prancing mounts along the cobblestoned street next to the covered wagon. The spearmen rushed onto the cargo ship, and the fighting stopped in moments, with the overwhelmed dockworkers throwing down their weapons and trying to surrender. They seemed truly surprised when the sailors they had just been trying to kill attacked the now-defenseless men instead. Surrender was a tricky matter when the blood surged, hard to get right and difficult to practice.

Bors saw the one-eyed man dragged by two guardsmen before a rider. The officer, a tall man with long red hair tied in a braid that hung down his back, leaned over his mount, questioning the one-eyed man. When he stood high in his stirrups, scanning the crowd, Bors froze, the hairs prickling on his skin. Stupid, Bors, this is what comes from hanging around to watch.

He had learned as a boy when hunting fowl with his father that the birds that bolted were the ones that drew the hunter's arrow. He forced himself to remain in place. When the rider's gaze swept over him, he seemed to pause, staring directly at Bors. A vague feeling of recognition gnawed at Bors. He tensed, preparing to bolt, but then the guards began yelling, and a dark shape dropped from the side of the ship to hit the waters with a splash. Someone had just jumped overboard. The officer screamed at his men, who surged forward along the pier near where the figure had hit the water.

Bors slipped back, disappearing into the night.

4

"I have nothing for you," the dockmaster told Bors.

"Will you have something later?" Bors asked.

The dockmaster glanced over his shoulder at the other laborers waiting for their work assignments. Although it was early, the sun still beat down upon them. He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "The Red Guard was here earlier. They seek a foreigner."

"Not me," insisted Bors.

"I have no love for the ancestors-damned Red Guards," whispered the dockmaster, "but there's no work for you here—not today."

Not ever, mused Bors. Time to leave this city.

He slipped away, noting several of the other workers staring at him. He had been here for months now, but Garos had been the only man he had come close to calling a friend. These men would turn him in without a second thought.

He strolled through the market district, mulling his options. The vendors had already set up their booths, and the air carried the aroma of hot bread and yesterday's catch. Just ahead, a pair of Red Guard watchmen in their bright-red gambesons questioned a foreign sailor. Bors slipped away down a side street.

He needed to get out of the city. While it was possible the guards were looking for someone else, it seemed unlikely. The more he considered it, the more certain he became that the one-eyed man had blamed him for last night. Matron's blessing, what kind of fool attacks a moored ship in a trade city? The Merchant Guild would be livid right now. No wonder the Red Guard were so stirred up; they'd need to find the culprits and make an example of them.

This was now a very bad city in which to be a stranger.

* * *

Sly Tor—First Master in Port Talos's underworld Shadow Guild—was having a shit day. There had been entirely too many of those lately, and all of them the fault of the same dark-eyed Master of Docktown—Long Tam. A single roll of parchment lay unfurled on his desk. He crumpled the paper in a fist. "Ancestors, damn that desert bitch!"

"You sure it was her?" said Fast Bran, leaning back against the opened window of Sly Tor's office on the upper level of his private warehouse. A tall Ascari native with long limbs and an easy gait, Fast Bran had earned his guild name years earlier by running whores in Port Talos's Temple District. Whenever a girl fled, Fast Bran would run her down fast and kill her slowly. He was a thoroughly frightening man—his long brown hair was tied in dreadlocks, in the Ascari fashion, with bits of bone weaved in amongst them, and his face bore a long scar beneath his right eye. "I hear the Red Guards took prisoners—including Kamanth Kul's man, the old pit-fighter. If Kul is involved, we shouldn't be. I want no business with the sorcerer."

Sly Tor sighed and rubbed his palms against his eyes. "If it were just Kul, I'd let First Councilor Hitori Davros deal with him, and stay out of it. But according to Davros"—Sly Tor held the crumpled parchment up—"Kul betrayed him, making a play for the relic last night himself."

"Not our business, then."

"It is because it was Long Tam that took it, not Kul's men. While the dockworkers attacked the ship's crew, she sneaked away with the artifact—and that is exactly her style."

Fast Bran's right eye twitched, as it often did whenever the subject of Long Tam came up. Fast Bran's scar had been a gift of Long Tam's, from the only knife fight he had ever lost. Had Long Tam not been forced to flee, she'd have taken his life as well. "So she took it. It's a challenge then, plain and simple."

"It's anything but simple. Davros paid me to make sure nothing happened to his ship and its priceless cargo. Now this…"

"And?"

"And he wants his prize back. He's threatening to bring the Red Guard down upon us, scour us from the city."

"It'll never happen. Shadow Guild's been here forever."

"Maybe, but maybe the other masters will just give up you and me instead."

"Do you think she knows you kept Davros's payment?"

"Of course she knows."

"Some say she's a witch, that she has … powers."

Sly Tor jabbed a finger at Fast Bran. "Don’t start with that shit again! She has no tribal magic."

Fast Bran's eye twitched. "Then kill her."

"I can’t just kill her."

"Why not?"

"'Cause she hasn't broken any of the guild's rules! The ship wasn't under official guild protection—not when I kept all of Davros's silver. So if I act against her, I'll be in violation of the charter. The other guild masters will vote me out. And we both know which desert bitch they'd elect in my place."

"Kill them, too."

Sly Tor had been about to snap at his enforcer, when he paused, staring at him instead. Slow in thought sometimes, Fast Bran did possess an uncluttered—if bloody—view of the world, but then, most of Fast Bran's enemies were dead. Is he right? Could I win a war?

He pushed himself away from his desk, crossed the office, and closed the window shutters next to Fast Bran. Placing his forehead against the shutters, he closed his eyes and listened to the pounding of his heart. Possibilities cascaded about his skull like clinking dice.

Dare I roll those dice?

When he opened his eyes, he had made his decision. He gripped the back of Fast Bran's neck and placed his lips beside his enforcer's ear. "She'll have a spy among the men, if not several, so only use those you absolutely trust—but tell them nothing, not until it's too late."

"What will you have me do?" Fast Bran whispered.

"The guild's grown too large. We're going to cull the herd."

Bran grinned, his eyes shining.

"She'll try and fence the relic fast, tonight if possible," said Sly Tor, thinking it through.

"Fat Alicia?"

"She's the only one that could move such an artifact. Those who help us can take what they want from her establishment. Greed will motivate those who are … queasy."

"Long Tam won't come alone. She's not that stupid."

The trace of a smile curled Sly Tor's lips. "She's already demonstrated the contempt she has for us. She'd never expect boldness on our part, and the Red Guard won't interfere in the Narrows. We kill Long Tam and her bodyguards, Fat Alicia, and the other masters in their beds this night. If we're lucky, by sunrise we'll have the relic back and Port Talos will have a much more manageable Shadow Guild."

"We'll never get all her people, not in a single night."

"Doesn't matter, if she's dead. Stragglers can run all they want. Afterward, we can take our time to clean up, decide who we can trust and who has to die. If the knives in our hands are steady, we can end this in one night of blood. And guess what, my friend. You get to kill Long Tam yourself."

Fast Bran smiled a gap-toothed grin. For once, his right eye had stopped twitching.

"It would be best if it were messy," said Sly Tor. "Something people will remember and talk about for a long time."

"I have just the tool."

Sly Tor's eyes fell upon the crumpled parchment on his desk. Approaching it, he smoothed it out again, staring at it. "I wonder," he mused softly.

"What?"

"If Kul was willing to betray the First Councilor to get his hands on the relic, how much would he pay to get it back?"

"Davros will—"

"Blame Long Tam," Sly Tor said. "She stole it, not me."

"And she'll be dead."

Sly Tor smiled.

5

Bors watched from behind a wagon filled with cages of squawking fowl as the procession of travelers and merchants waited to go through the city's Elephant Gate, its western exit. The line crept far too slowly, eliciting grumbling from those standing under the bright sun. Bors slipped forward to join a gaggle of temple chanters waving bowls of smoky incense as they danced past the line. As he came alongside the arched gateway, he saw a merchant pulling open his tunic, baring his chest for a guard's scrutiny. Bors felt a sinking sensation in his gut and spun away, moving quickly in the opposite direction.

They were looking for him. But how had they known about the tattoo?

There were other gates, but each would have the same scrutiny. He couldn’t stay in the city. Even if he could find work, eventually the guards would find him, or more likely, someone would turn him in for a reward. What had been aboard that ship to provoke so much attention? There was something very wrong here, and he had learned a long time ago that what you didn't know would get you killed.

As he wandered the backstreets, he thought back to last night, wracking his memory. That Red Guard officer, the one with the red hair, his face had been familiar. He had an aptitude for remembering names and faces—such little details carried great weight among the men—but try as he might, he couldn't place the red-haired man.

Before realizing where he had been headed, he found himself back near the docks. Of all the city's districts, he knew this area best. He had no silver to book passage, but he might be able to sneak aboard an outgoing ship. While stowaways were likely to be tossed overboard when caught, his chances were still better than remaining here.

When the two guardsmen in the red gambesons pushed through a group of fishmongers just ahead of him, Bors's heart spiked wildly. He darted into an adjacent alley, rushing past a sleeping beggar who smelled as if he had just shit himself. A voice cried out in challenge from behind, and Bors began to run, sprinting for the far end of the alley. He'd move north for several blocks, past the temple district, and then turn about again and make his way back to the docks once he was sure he was clear. Then he could hide until nightfall, when he had the best chance to slip aboard a ship.

It was a good plan—only ruined by the second set of guardsmen who stepped into the alley, blocking his path.

He staggered to a halt and spun about just as the first set of guards came up behind him, their spears leveled at his back. His hopes sunk, he raised his hands. He could fight, but these men were just following orders. They took his axe and small knife and clapped irons on his wrists. Then one of them pulled his tunic open, exposing his tattoo. "That's the one," the guard said with a note of triumph.

"I've done nothing. You've the wrong man."

"Right, must be another Lyrian mercenary attacking ships."

They dragged him down the alley, leading him onto the busy street, past crowds of gawking Hishtari citizens and to a waiting wagon with an iron cage on its bed. Once they had secured Bors inside the cage, the men climbed aboard the wagon's bench and set the horses moving down the crowded streets.

The wagon took them to one of the bridges across the Sun Horn, the estuary that split the city. In the middle of the waterway, connected to both sides of the city by bridges, was Citadel Island, the fort that housed the Red Guard and city’s jail. Will they hang me outright, or give me a trial before declaring me guilty? He watched the face of a small boy staring at him as they rode past. It seemed wrong to die here, so far from home, like an animal in a cage.

Maybe it was exactly what he deserved.

The wagon rattled over the bridge, stopping before the gates of the Citadel, a large stone fort with crenellated towers and a tall, thick curtain wall. If a conquering army ever took the city, even a small force could hold out on this island. Of course, then they'd be trapped and surrounded by enemies who had already taken the city, making the defense of the fort pointless, but again, it wasn't Bors's place to tell the Hishtari how to fight.

The guards spoke briefly to the sentries at the gate, and a moment later, the wagon was rolling forward into the courtyard. Inside, a group of men stood about, laughing and wasting time, as soldiers do when they're avoiding work. He missed that solidarity, even missed campaigning. These men worked long, dangerous hours for little pay, but it was honest work and the companionship true.

The four guardsmen led him out of the cage, hustling him up into the keep's entrance. Inside the keep, the air was much cooler. They led him down dark stone corridors, past other guards and civil servants. He smelled food, stew most likely. His mouth watered, and he wondered if they'd feed him before killing him. That would be the polite thing to do.

A guard stood at the end of the corridor before a flight of steps leading down. The man moved aside for them, and Bors's fear began to spike. Where were they taking him? When he hesitated, a guard shoved him forward. He began to regret not fighting back when he had the chance. Hanging was one thing, but nothing good could come of going underground.

That was where torture chambers were kept.

A torchlit tunnel stood at the bottom of a long flight of stairs. They pushed him forward down the tunnel. When he heard a muffled scream, Bors paused again. "I've had no trial."

One of the men shoved him, and he almost fell. "Tell it to the Night Commander."

At the far end of the tunnel, another guard stood before a black door. When he saw them coming, he pushed the door open and slipped through. Bors heard the scream again, like a wounded horse, coming from the other side of the door. One of the guards placed his hand on Bors's shoulder and held him in place.

A foot-long length of chain connected the cuffs on his wrists. He wouldn't be able to fight, but if he was fast enough, he might be able to loop the chain over a guard's neck and force the others to kill him.

The guard reappeared. "Bring him in."

It took all five of them to drag Bors forward. Once inside, they threw him down, and he fell upon his knees, his pulse racing. The stench of blood and shit nearly made his head reel. Rusty metal instruments, claws and whips, and other tools of cruelty sat about on worktables, some glistening with fresh blood. Three other men were in the wide torture chamber. The torturer, a fat, hairy brute with the dim, empty eyes of the sun-touched stood beside a winch that controlled a series of ropes and pulleys. The ropes held aloft a bound naked man, his buttocks suspended only inches above the blood- and shit-streaked point of a three-foot-high wooden pyramid set directly beneath him, the winch constructed so that when it was lowered, the man's own weight would drive the point deep into his rectum. The man, Bors saw with horror, was Ilgrad, the dockworker who had organized the others for last night's assault upon the ship. Ilgrad's bulbous eyes were wild with suffering, a cloth gag rammed in his mouth.

The third man in the chamber was the same red-haired officer from the docks. He balanced atop the rear legs of a chair, his booted feet resting upon a small table, a brass goblet in his hands. He glanced at Bors before taking a small sip. "Again," he said to the torturer.

The torturer yanked a lever, dropping Ilgrad onto the bloody point. Ilgrad's muffled screams were stomach-churning, and had he been a wounded horse, the worst men Bors had ever known would have gladly put him down.

After all these years, the cruelty of men still surprised Bors.

Ilgrad thrashed, only driving the point deeper. Blood ran in thick rivulets down the wooden sides of the pyramid to drip and pool on the stone floor.

The red-haired man raised his palm. "Enough."

The torturer, a moronic grin on his features, raised Ilgrad once more. Bors met Ilgrad's wild eyes. Once again, he saw the man surrounded by his children, his wife waiting for him.

"It’s called an Iscari Cradle," the red-haired man said, "one of the few contributions to civilization that those dog-lovers have ever given us."

"This is civilization?" Bors asked.

Young, in his late twenties or early thirties, the red-haired officer sported the blue-painted lips of the Hishtari noble class, his goatee impeccably trimmed. He watched Bors for long moments. Then, in a flash of recognition, Bors recognized the man. He had been much younger then, a squire to a Hishtari envoy who had accompanied the Lyrian army on one of the king's many campaigns in the western outlands.

Bors cast his glance down. If he recognizes me…

"Come, sit." The man motioned to a stool on the other side of the table.

The guards dragged Bors to his feet and shoved him onto the stool. A brass carafe of wine sat on the table beside a second goblet, into which the nobleman poured another cup and slid it to Bors. Keeping his gaze lowered, Bors picked up the goblet but then placed it down again. The nobleman turned to the guards. "Leave us."

They hesitated, and Bors could feel their unease, heavy like a burial shroud.

"Night Commander," one of the men said. "He's dangerous."

"He's in chains," the nobleman snapped. "Now get out."

Ilgrad whined, a heavy, wet sound.

"Yes, Night Commander," the guards said as they turned and filed out, closing the door behind them.

"Deaf and mute. Imbecilic as well," the Night Commander said.

"What?"

The man glanced toward the slack-jawed torturer. "We specifically seek out such men for this work. They are surprisingly uncommon. To be honest, I don't think the man even knows what he's doing, not really."

"You understand what he's doing."

The man's blue lips parted with just the promise of a smile.

Bors motioned to Ilgrad. "Whatever he's said, he's lying. I'm not involved in this. There's been a mistake."

"Said? Who cares what he says?"

"Then why do this?"

The man's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. "Because he's a murderer. Six sailors were killed aboard that ship you attacked."

"Not me. I never set foot on any ship."

The man watched Bors, and the silence hung heavy between them for long moments before he spoke again. "You don't remember me, do you?"

"I … My lord, I'm a dockworker, just trying to make enough to eat. I don't know people like you. I'm nobody."

The man snorted. "Nobody? I was at the Grang River that day. You were a hero. I wanted to be you."

Bors felt an imaginary noose slipping over his neck. "My lord, I've never—"

"When I saw you among the crowd of gawkers last night, it was like I was thirteen again, once more watching you storm that fiery bridge and challenge Gorn the Black to personal combat. Ancestors, it was thrilling!"

Resignation took Bors. "I remember your face, but ..."

Just for a moment, Bors saw the hurt in the other man's eyes, but he quickly waved his hand. "I was a boy, a squire, not worth remembering. Tuluth Dar."

Bors nodded, the years melting away. "Yes, I do remember. You served Sir Hyrol the Elder."

Dar's smile curled his blue lips. "I'm flattered. Last night, I feared myself mistaken—I mean, it all seemed so impossible—but when this one"—he pointed at Ilgrad—"named you, and then Grottle described your tattoo, well … I knew my ancestors must be guiding my hand." Dar shook his head. "'Bors,' really? Clearly, you've no experience at hiding."

"I wasn't hiding. Who's Grottle?"

"The ugly one-eyed brute you fought. It's sad to see such a once-great man working as a common laborer, but you only have yourself to blame, don't you?"

"I was never a great man, my lord."

"Indeed," Dar said, sipping his wine. "But the past is unimportant now, isn’t it?

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"I'm telling you how it is." Dar leaned forward, letting his chair legs thump heavily on the dungeon stones. "You're going to hang for leading a brazen, cowardly attack upon the cargo vessel, Gretta's Wing."

"I didn't lead any attack, nor did I participate in one. I did kill two of the men who did and hand you their ringleader, this Grottle. So really, you should be thanking me. You could even give me a reward."

Dar's eyes twinkled. "Please, continue."

Bors shrugged. "Ask Grottle."

"I did. He works for a rather important man in the city and tells an entirely different story. Mind you, men like that—lacking in all honor—will say or do anything. I'd much rather deal with you. You I understand. Well … mostly. How you could throw away your entire life is a mystery. What were you thinking?"

The chains on Bors's wrists clinked as he leaned forward. "What do you want from me?"

"Despite the bungled attack on the Gretta’s Wing, someone did steal the artifact from the captain’s cabin."

The figure Bors had seen slipping into the water.

"What artifact?"

Dar stared at him, his eyes thin slits. Finally, he leaned back in his chair. "You really don't know, do you?"

"I told you, I had nothing to do with last night. I was stinking drunk."

Dar looked down his thin aristocratic nose. "You're familiar with the Illthori, yes?"

He was. Most men were, even those who hadn't had the benefit of a proper education and could read and write. The Illthori, a long-dead race of magic-users, had left behind legends and a handful of priceless artifacts—magical artifacts. Sudden understanding flashed through Bors, and he gasped aloud, his skin tingling. Now, he understood why the guards had been out in such force. "An Illthori relic—which one, the rod, the crown?"

"Neither. This one is not from Conarck. This is a new one. Found within an underground temple in the Red Desert. This item is, I'm told, a mask, a white porcelain mask inlaid with gold."

"What does it do?"

"Do I look like a scholar? It's valuable. It encourages lowborn men to murder one another for it."

Bors bit his lower lip and regarded Dar. "I don't have it. Your men searched me."

"Of course you don't have it, but I know who does."

Bors's gaze flashed to Ilgrad, still hanging over the obscene point of the Iscari Cradle. "Then why all this?"

Dar stared at Bors in confusion. "I told you already. He's a criminal."

"Then hang him."

"Lessons matter. You of all people should understand that."

"What about the ringleader, Grottle?"

"He’s a foreigner like you, but from Xi'ur—and he isn't the ringleader, just another hired tough."

"Oh?" Bors asked, doing his best to sound disinterested.

"Grottle works for Kamanth Kul."

The chamber seemed to grow darker. "The sorcerer?"

Grinning like a fiend, Dar nodded.

Bors shivered. "I saw no sorcerer nor met with one last night. Even drunk, I'd have remembered that."

"Nor would you. He doesn't leave his estate."

"Then how—"

"He is the man behind Grottle. All know this."

"If you know that Kul is involved, why don’t you arrest him?"

"Arrest Kamanth Kul?" Dar's thin eyebrows rose. "Because it would be my final act as Night Commander. Kamanth Kul's family is far older than mine. Even First Councilor Davros wouldn't dare such a thing. The scandal would reach the emperor. No, Kul could walk down the Street of Scarves at tenth bell, stabbing children at random, and no one would ever arrest him."

Bors remained silent for some moments, then, in a soft voice, he asked, "What is it you want?"

"I have an informant among Port Talos's Shadow Guild. You're aware of it?"

Bors inclined his head. "A criminal gang."

"The criminal gang in Port Talos, and protected by members of the city council through bribes. But I have an informant among them."

"And what does your spy tell you?"

"He tells me that a certain cut-thief by the name of Long Tam is behind the theft of the mask. Long Tam is the Shadow Guild Master of the Docks and has been a thorn under my fingernail for more than a year now."

"Aren't the docks protected by bribes?"

"Indeed, but it seems there are factions at play within the Shadow Guild, and the protection money didn't reach those it should have. Apparently Long Tam stole the mask to embarrass the leader of the guild, a rival of hers." He shook his head, sighing. "Women."

"So arrest her. Be your own hero."

Dar scowled and poured himself some more wine. "I can’t. I've tried. I have a description of her, but I've never actually put eyes on her, nor have any of my men. She's like a shadow. And she remains hidden most of the time, often within the Narrows. We don't go into the Narrows."

Bors had lived in Port Talos long enough to know of the collection of tightly packed alleys and huts crammed between the city's southern wall and the Crafts District. You could find all manner of perversions there, and dockhands and foreign sailors had long learned to stay out of the Narrows. "If this mask is truly an Illthori artifact, could you not just enter in force?"

"I couldn't, but my superior, Watch-General Tor, could. Of course, Long Tam would simply vanish the moment the guard marched into the Narrows. Besides, even if we did somehow find her, the credit for taking back the mask wouldn't be mine, making it a wasted effort."

"I see."

"Do you?"

And then Bors did see. "You want me to go into the Narrows and get your mask?" He asked in disbelief. "I'm a foreigner, a stranger."

"You're unknown, and you now look entirely disreputable. A man with your impressive talents could easily retrieve the mask, which makes you a useful tool."

An expendable tool, Bors thought, easily discarded. But he knew he was trapped. Even without knowing his identity, Dar had leverage over him. He was a foreigner here. Dar could do as he wished, and no one would ever challenge him. He ground his teeth, accepting the inevitability of his situation. A man endures what must be endured, his father had taught him a lifetime ago. "And how would I find this Long Tam?"

"As it turns out," Dar said as he leaned back in his chair, supreme satisfaction on his face, "I know where she will go to fence the mask this night."

Dar laid out his plan, explaining how Bors could recognize Long Tam. When he was done, Dar called for the guards again. Bors stood as they came to escort him out, a man holding each of his elbows.

"Remember," Dar called out, stopping Bors, "if you try to leave the city, you'll be the one hanging over my Iscari Cradle."

Bors stared upon Ilgrad's pitiful face. "I understand."

"I'm sure you do," Dar answered with a sneer.

Bors pivoted, sweeping out the closest guard's feet, sending him smashing to the floor. He rammed an elbow into the face of the other man, shattering his nose. Dar leaped to his feet, his scimitar flashing from its sheath, but Bors kicked the table into him, sending him to the floor. The huge dim-witted torturer stared in shock, his mouth open as Bors spun about and swung the length of chain between his wrists over Ilgrad's suspended head.

"No!" screamed Dar.

Bors dropped his weight, feeling Ilgrad's neck snap cleanly.

As the guards pulled Bors from the dead man and proceeded to kick and punch him, Bors curled into a ball, trying to protect his face and head as well as he could. Dar was screaming at the guards, who reluctantly ceased their assault before dragging him in front of the enraged Night Commander. "You Lyrian pig, what do you—"

"If you kill me, Night Commander, you'll have to find your own mask."

Dar stared at him for long moments, his face purple with rage. "By tomorrow night, I'll have the mask in my hands or your ass on my cradle—and there will be no one to save you. Give him back his belongings, and get him out of here."

6

Hours later, Tuluth Dar was organizing the night's patrols when Watch-General Hatten Tor stormed into his office. Tor's family was slightly closer to the emperor's bloodline than Dar's—the difference minor, really—but Tor, the overweening peacock, never missed an opportunity to rub Dar's nose in his lower station. Dar jumped to his feet. "Watch-General, a pleasure, as always—"

"Where is the prisoner you arrested, the Lyrian?"

Dar, no fool, felt an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. There was no good reason for the Watch-General to care about any prisoner. "Watch-General … the guards arrested the wrong man. He had nothing to do with the attack last night."

"I asked you where he was."

"Released, Watch-General."

"On whose authority?"

Dar hesitated, an undercurrent of fear running down his spine. His intuition screamed that Tor already knew Dar had released the Lyrian prisoner. So why ask—and why care? A chasm had opened beneath Dar's feet, and he teetered upon its rim. "Apologies, Watch-General. I believed the man innocent of the charges."

"You believed wrong. But you did arrest an innocent man, this Grottle. Apparently, he was trying to stop the thieves when you and your men attacked him. He's a hero, Dar, a hero. And you arrested him."

In a flash of insight, Dar understood. Kamanth Kul. The sorcerer had bribed Tor. Nothing Dar now said would make a breath of difference. "Yes, Watch-General. I'll see Grottle released immediately."

"And you'll apologize for your mistake." Tor's own blue-painted lips curled into a mocking smile, making the thin, white-haired Watch-General's face resemble a grinning skull.

"Yes, of course, Watch-General."

"It seems this foreigner called Bors was the ringleader."

"Apologies, Watch-General. I'll recapture him at once."

The elderly commander turned to leave and then paused, looking back over his shoulder. "I always thought it a mistake to give someone from your family such a position of prominence within the Red Guard."

Dar said nothing. What could he say that wouldn't make a bad situation worse?

"Your time in the Red Guard is coming to an end." Tor softly closed the door behind him.

"We'll see, old fool," Dar whispered. "When I have the mask, I’ll have your job."

* * *

Grottle paused on the landing of the tower's stairwell, catching his breath. He glared up at the final flight of winding stairs that led to his master’s workshop, almost wishing he were back in the Red Guard's dungeon.

Kul's tower was in the northernmost sector of the city, nestled among the other wealthy families' estates. While the Kul family was old and noble, able to trace their bloodline back to the time of the warlock kings, Grottle knew his master’s wealth and status was merely an illusion, of no more substance than a fart. Once, the Kul family had indeed numbered among Port Talos's wealthiest citizens, and their many ships had carried the finest cargo from the sword coast to Xi'ur, but that was before Kul had squandered his family's wealth on occult items, spending exorbitant sums for any piece of junk even rumored to possess magical properties—which meant that whatever bribe Kul had paid for Grottle's release was one the sorcerer couldn't afford. He'll be furious, but he wouldn't have paid for my release if he didn't also need me.

Grottle climbed the stairs, arriving before the black door and Kul's foul workshop. Kul rarely left his tower these days, becoming more and more of a hermit. Grottle paused in front of the door, his stomach twisted into knots. Kul may have squandered his family's wealth, but he also possessed very real powers.

The things Grottle had seen …

He shuddered, pushing the heavy black door open. The workshop, a round chamber, filled the upper level of the tower. Overhead, a domed wooden ceiling covered most of the chamber in shadow, but several opened slats permitted beams of sunlight to cut through the dust-filled air. Dirt and filth covered the floor; those few servants who yet remained in his master’s employ never cleaned this workshop—never entered it. Roaches, rats, and spiders scurried about in the shadows. Heavy wooden tables, each piled high with an assortment of jars, clay pots, candles, and glass tubes, had been shoved out of the way, clearing a large section of the dirty wooden floor on which Kul had scrawled occult marks with black chalk, creating an intricate pattern.

Grottle's master, Kamanth Kul, awaited him, his back to him as he stood before an opened window, staring out at the city below.

Grottle, more than twice his size, could have broken Kul's spine over his knee with no more effort than passing a wet shit, but fear—such as he had never felt fighting in the pits of Xi'ur—turned his bowels cold. He needs you, else you'd still be rotting in a dungeon.

He cleared his throat, and Kul turned to regard him.

Thin and unkempt, well past his prime—if ever he had one—the sorcerer was an ugly man. The top of his head was balding, leaving only tufts of white fuzz through which could be seen brown spots on his egg-like skull. His long, scraggly gray hair hung past his shoulders and, judging by Kul's incessant scratching, housed lice. Kul's once extravagant robes were now filthy from neglect and near-constant wear, leaving bare patches through which Grottle could see skin. His fingernails, inches long, broken in places and coated with grime, curled like claws. The stench from his unwashed body struck Grottle like a fist, and his dark eyes danced with madness. Grottle, unwilling to look into those eyes, stared at Kul's feet. "Master, thank you for my freedom."

Kul glared at him. "Where is my mask?"

"I'm … I'm sorry, master. It wasn't my fault. I was betrayed by—"

Kul raised his palm. "Always the excuses. All you had to do was kill some sailors and bring it to me. Isn't killing what you do?"

"I'm sorry, master. I almost had it."

Kul rolled his eyes and turned away, approaching one of his worktables. He picked up a small dark glass jar the size of his hand and held it to his eye. The glass was smoke-blackened, but Grottle saw movement within—a particularly large beetle of some kind with pincers and a hornlike protrusion on its bulbous head. Grottle shivered. He hated bugs and always had.

"Have you ever noticed," said Kul, staring almost reverently at the beetle, "that insects wear their bones outside their bodies, like armor that never has to be removed? What an advantage, don't you think?"

"Yes, master." In fact, he hadn’t noticed, nor did he care now.

"The leader of the Shadow Guild, a most disagreeable man by the name of ... get this ... Sly Tor, has sent me a message."

"Master?"

Heaped beneath the table that Kul stood before was a pile of iron plate-mail armor. The armor, dented and rusted, had clearly seen better years. Kul nudged one of the iron pieces now with a sandaled foot. "Sly Tor has the mask and is willing to sell it to me."

"That's ... good news, master."

"No, it’s not good news, idiot. Sly Tor knows First Councilor Davros paid me to remove the curse on the mask, and—because you failed so spectacularly—Sly Tor now also knows I tried to steal it from Davros’s ship, which means Davros himself must know I tried to betray him."

"Is ... Is he angry?"

Kul laughed. "I expect he’d like to kill me. I know I would. Needless to say, the First Councilor no longer desires my services." Kul snorted. "As if he'd find anyone else that could remove an Illthori curse."

"Then why has Sly Tor sent you a message? He works for Davros, no?"

"He's a thief. His kind would sell the mask to whomever can pay the most for it, and this is the message Sly Tor has sent me. If I can pay more than Davros, I can have the relic."

"How much does—"

"Too much." Kul sighed, shaking his head. "Far too much, a hundred times what I paid for your release—and that was a price I could only barely afford."

"Shit them both, then. The relic is probably not even real."

Kul regarded Grottle for long moments, looking down his thin nose at him as if he were a very stupid child. Grottle's face burned, and he looked away. Kul placed the jar onto the table and removed its lid before inserting a set of prongs and dragging out the quivering beetle, the size of Grottle's thumb. Grottle shuddered once more, forcing himself to remain in place. Kul stood back, still holding the beetle with the prongs and pointing with the angry insect at the armor beneath the table. "It occurred to me I may have erred earlier, sending you forth to do battle without the necessary equipment. Perhaps … some of your failure is my responsibility."

"Master, my pit-fighting days were long ago."

"Put the armor on, Grottle."

"Master, I—"

"Don't worry. It should fit over even your fat gut. It was the largest the servants could find."

Grottle dropped onto one knee and began to sort through the armor. There was little point in delaying. Besides, whatever foolishness Kul had planned, it no longer mattered; Grottle had just decided his service to Kamanth Kul was at an end. He'd put on the armor and agree to whatever Kul demanded, but the moment he was out of the sorcerer's sight, he was going to flee the city. He had some silver hidden away for just such a need. Perhaps he'd try his hand at running whores in Daenipor.

As Grottle began to strap on the pieces of armor, Kul stood behind him, watching, still holding the beetle. He slipped the thick thigh plates over his legs and then jumped up and down, making sure they held. Next, he attached the thick chest plate over his gut, strapping it tightly in place. This was old tournament armor, Grottle realized, too heavy for practical use. He slipped the shoulder harness in place. "Master, what is it you want me to—"

"Don't worry. I'd never ask more than you are capable of—not again."

Grottle managed to work the straps on the shoulder harness, but it hung poorly. He needed help, but Kul just stood watching. The old fool probably thinks I'll challenge the Shadow Guild on my own, like a hero from the ballads. Grottle shook his head at the thought. If he—

A sharp pain coursed through the back of his neck. Grottle spun about, staring at Kul, who was now stepping back again, still holding the beetle by the prongs in one hand but a small dart in the other. Grottle rubbed the back of his neck. "Master—"

His legs collapsed beneath him, and he fell to the filthy wooden floor with a crash. He could still see, still hear, and his heart pounded painfully beneath the metal plate over his chest, but he was unable to even twitch a finger.

"Don't worry. The paralysis will pass," Kul said softly, kneeling down beside him.

No, please. Grottle tried to speak but couldn't make a sound.

Kul pried open Grottle's mouth with one hand, forcing his teeth apart. Still holding the beetle with the prongs, he brought it toward Grottle's opened mouth.

Grottle shit himself.

Kul closed Grottle's jaws again, this time over the angry beetle, holding it in place. The beetle's legs scratched at his tongue, ripping furrows in it. Coppery blood filled his mouth, further enraging the insect.

"Wealth is such a paltry thing, Grottle, so temporal. Once, my family was one of the wealthiest in the city. Now, I can barely afford the bribe to release you. Yet if you had succeeded in bringing me the Mask of Storms when I asked you to, I'd never need for silver again. Even now, I’m amazed the Shadow Guild wishes to sell it. They must not understand what they possess."

"Gggrrsh," Grottle managed.

"Or perhaps Sly Tor does understand, but perhaps he knows about the curse. After all, what good is Illthori magic if using it ages you prematurely?"

"Gggll … gll."

"You will retrieve the Mask of Storms and punish those who have taken it, and when you return, you will also bring me a sacrifice. I care not whom. Any human life will serve to counter the curse."

And then Kul began to chant in a language Grottle had never heard before. The air became heavy, his own heartbeat impossibly loud. The beetle in Grottle's mouth grew larger, began to expand, forcing Grottle's jaw impossibly wide. A moment later, his jaws snapped, but by then the pain had spread throughout his entire body. Kul's chanting increased in volume, and Grottle arched his back as his spine began to pull apart.

Part II

Blood on the Streets

7

At sunset, Bors stood before the Lucky Whisper, the tavern that Night Commander Tuluth Dar claimed Long Tam would visit to fence the Illthori relic. No one had accosted him since entering the Narrows—he was large and carried a fighting axe—but many had watched him, sizing him up. In that way, the Narrows seemed no different from any other slum he had visited. The Narrows had been crammed into every available space, with homes and businesses built haphazardly atop one another. If a strong enough storm ever blew through the Narrows, many of these huts would come crashing down.

Unlike its more flimsy neighbors, the Lucky Whisper was built several stories high, with crenellated stone walls and narrow window slits. It reminded Bors of a fort, which perhaps was what it was, he mused, glancing about the nearby alleys and tightly packed streets. A flight of stone steps led up to a platform on the second level, where the tavern's faded red door stood. Two toughs leaned against the wall on either side of the door, cudgels resting against their wide shoulders. Bors mounted the steps and reached for the door, pointedly ignoring the two bouncers. Neither moved, and Bors slipped inside.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim, he noted the presence of about a dozen other men scattered about the bar. Those who noted his arrival quickly lost interest and returned to their conversations. Dar had been right about one thing: these days he blended well among such men.

He picked a table near the wall where he could watch his surroundings. A tired-looking woman with streaks of dirt across her forehead stopped by long enough to take his order, returning with a mug of ale he could have chewed, a bowl of warm stew with stringy meat, and a chunk of black bread. Dar's guards had returned his knife, axe, and purse, but most of his coins had disappeared, leaving only scraps of currency.

He nursed his drink, aware of an uneasy feeling. It wasn't just being in the Narrows. Something was putting him off. Once again, he covertly scanned the other patrons. There were few women in the tavern, let alone any matching Long Tam's description: a tall, striking woman with pale skin the color of sea foam, long dark hair, and purple eyes, which was odd considering Dar claimed she was from the tanned, brown-eyed desert people. The tavern's owner, Long Tam's fence, Fat Alicia, appeared from a door at the back of the tavern. There was no mistaking the mountainous woman, taller than Bors and twice as wide. She spoke briefly to the bartender and then disappeared into the back once again.

What if Dar's wrong? What if Long Tam doesn't come this night? He couldn’t keep coming back to this tavern. And even if Long Tam did flounce through the door, flashing the Illthori relic, what could he do, just steal it and run? No one stole from the Shadow Guild, not in the Narrows, not anywhere. He'd never get the mask back to Dar. And even if he did, would that red-haired monster keep his word? Probably not, but what choice did he have?

When the tavern's door opened again and a large bearded tanner stumbled in, Bors noted the reaction of two men sitting at a table across from him. One of the men had reached for a large knife on his belt but forced his hand away again. Now Bors understood what had been bothering him: I'm not the only one waiting for someone. Now, he began to pay more attention to the other patrons. The longer he watched them, the more certain he became that at least four of the men were more interested in watching the door than their drinks. Bors had spent enough time waiting for battle to begin to recognize its signs in others. Fear had a smell, sharp and strong, and Bors recognized that smell now on these men. There's going to be a fight.

He downed the last of his ale, rose, and walked out of the tavern. With every step, he felt eyes on his back, but no one challenged him.

Why should they? He was nobody.

Outside, the night was dark and cool. Bors paused, standing beside the two bouncers, letting his eyesight adjust. A prickling sensation ran down his spine, and his fingers itched to take his fighting axe from his belt, but he forced himself to keep his arms at his sides and slowly descend the steps. He swayed just a bit.

Now, he noted the three beggars in the shadows, also watching the tavern. They had been there when he had arrived, but he hadn't paid any attention to them then. Now, he felt their eyes on him. He knew they were armed, having years ago learned the telltale signs. He walked past the beggars—sentries—and then headed for the corner of the street, all the time fearing a knife between his shoulder blades. Nothing happened. Whatever's going down tonight, it isn't about me.

He made his way back, coming around the tavern through a series of interconnected alleys, taking his time and stopping often to listen, to watch the shadows for any sign of movement. Bors was no thief, but he was a fair hunter, and more than once, his life had depended on his stealth. He slipped down the alley that sat across from the entrance to the tavern, stepping around broken boxes and garbage, until he had an unobstructed view of the tavern's entrance and the beggars watching it. He heard a scuffling on the rooftop tiles above him. There's someone up there, he realized, most likely armed with a crossbow. At least, that's where I'd put an archer.

He remained in place, watching the tavern's entrance. Every now and then, someone would arrive, and the door would open, only to close again soon after. But each time, the visitor had been another man, sometimes two or three, never a woman. His knees began to grow stiff, but he remained motionless. He wasn't a young man anymore, but he wasn't so old he couldn't maintain watch discipline.

Then he heard the sounds of a group of people moving softly down the cobblestoned street. Moments later, a group of at least six people came into view. When one of the bouncers opened the door, spilling light upon the group, Bors saw one of them was a tall woman with pale skin and long dark hair. While he was too far to see her eyes, he had no doubt they'd be the color of dark wine.

Dar had been right. It was Long Tam.

And she was walking into a trap.

8

Long Tam, once Farina Moon-Eye of the Sandstone Mountain clan, nodded in greeting to the two men standing outside Fat Alicia's tavern. One of them, Trallin, a former guild bone-breaker, held the door for her. They were Alicia's men, not hers, but she knew them both well enough. In a fight, they'd side with her over anyone other than Alicia, and Alicia was solidly on Long Tam's side these days. Years ago, they had been rivals in the guild, but Alicia's stealing days were over. Now she only moved the merchandise. Long Tam prided herself on knowing who was and wasn't a potential threat. And soon enough, she'd have enough influence among the other masters to challenge Sly Tor's authority and force a new vote on First Master. The possibilities were breathtaking. Never before had a woman—let alone one from the desert clans—risen so far in the guild.

Long Tam and her bodyguards swept into the tavern. As she did, a silence settled among its occupants. Unless she wore a disguise, which she did when necessary, men always noted her presence. She smiled, swaying her hips, her hand on the hilt of her scimitar. Let them look. Soon, they'll be staring at the new First Master of the Shadow Guild.

The bartender motioned her over, and she veered toward him, wanting to get the relic fenced so she could return to one of her many safe houses. Her spy among Sly Tor's men had reported something was up, but not what. Sly Tor was scum, but he was no fool. He'd know by now who had been behind the theft on the ship and would love to arrange an accident for her. Games of power came with risks, but Long Tam was a much better player than Sly Tor.

* * *

Outside, from the rooftop above Bors, the crack of crossbow arms releasing broke the silence of the night. A moment later, both bouncers near the door flew back against the wall and then slid down it, their limbs splayed haphazardly.

There are two archers on the roof, Bors realized. How did I miss the second one? They had both let loose their bolts at the same time—an impressive feat.

The three beggars bolted forward, pausing only long enough to make certain the guards were dead before positioning themselves on either side of the tavern's door. The clouds drifted away from the half moon, painting the street silver as four more men joined the beggars. Moonlight glinted from steel in their hands. Bors was impressed with the execution of the ambush: killing guards silently was far more challenging than most realized, and attacks often failed because of a single mistake.

When the screaming began inside the tavern, the men opened the door and charged inside.

* * *

Before Long Tam could reach the bar, Fat Alicia appeared from the back office, waving a huge arm. Long Tam smiled and swerved to meet her—just as one of the men from a nearby table leaped to his feet and swung a wooden cudgel, striking one of her bodyguards instead of her. Long Tam dove forward in a somersault, rolling to her feet. Someone began screaming, and men attacked her bodyguards, some with two or three men apiece on them. Other men, all brandishing weapons, rushed through the tavern's entrance. An attack, she realized, not an accident.

I hadn't expected that from Sly Tor.

A man charged her, one she recognized from Sly Tor's gang. He held a wide-bladed Xi'urian fighting knife but hesitated to stab her, trying to punch her with the weapon's cross guard, an act that sent a shiver down her spine.

They want me alive.

She dodged under the clumsy blow, shoving the man's elbow into his own neck and then ramming a knee into his balls, sending him falling into two of his comrades, tangling them up as well. Another man charged at her from her left, but she whipped a throwing dart from her sleeve into his face, not sure if she hit or not, because she was already looking for a way out. To stay was to die.

Two more men rushed her, both with wooden cudgels. With a shattering shriek, Fat Alicia's considerable bulk flew over a table, smashing it and the two men opposite it down. She then sat atop one of the men, holding his head with both hands and pounding it against the floor, cracking it like an eggshell.

Bless you, Alicia.

With the space Alicia had just given her, Long Tam whipped her scimitar free. Another man came at her with his own scimitar—Fast Bran, Sly Tor's weasel of an enforcer. Their blades clashed in a series of lightning-fast feints and cuts. Fast Bran was skilled but overeager and put himself off balance with a thrust-cut aimed at her face. She caught his blade on her own, pushing it up and aside before riposting, cutting his ugly cheek open with the tip of her blade. Fast Bran fell back, grasping at his face. "Desert witch!"

Long Tam flashed her teeth at him before bolting for the still-open door.

* * *

Men died inside the tavern, but no one in the Narrows came to help. Nor did anyone even raise an alarm. According to Dar, the Red Guard wouldn't have come if they did. Bors remained hiding behind the boxes in the alley, watching. He needed Long Tam, needed that mask, but knew he couldn't just run out and join the fight … although he briefly considered exactly that. Bors had always been a simple man and preferred simple solutions. A friend had once called him a "hammer," a clumsy tool for quick, unimaginative solutions. In truth, he was probably the least suited man in the city to steal from the Shadow Guild.

A figure burst from the tavern entrance, pursued by three others—it was Long Tam, with scimitar in hand.

She leapt down the stairs, landing softly on the street. But when she tried to run, two men Bors hadn't seen earlier moved out of the shadows, blocking her. The other three men spread out in a circle around her. Five to one, Bors noted sourly, impossible odds.

The men moved together, as Bors knew they would. Steel rang on steel, and a man screamed in pain, but a moment later, Long Tam was down, her sword lying on the street. "Take her into the alley," a man hissed.

Two of them picked her up, and they all hurried across the street to the very alley in which Bors hid. He slid his fingers down the haft of the fighting axe. Long Tam moaned, her arms still held by two men. "Shut it, bitch," the same man who had spoken earlier snarled.

From where he hid, Bors could see all of them, not three paces away: two men held the struggling woman, another stood guard, watching the alley entrance, while a fourth man clutched his bleeding hip. The fifth man, the one giving the orders, stood before Long Tam, blood dripping down his cheek.

Long Tam glared at the man. "Don’t do this, Fast Bran. The guild won't stand for it, not this."

Bors admired her bravery. In her place, he doubted his voice would be as steady.

"After tonight, there won't be a guild. At least, not as it is now," the man, Fast Bran, answered. "Hurry, search her."

The man with the wound on his hip searched the struggling woman. She tried to kick him, but he punched her savagely in the stomach, and she gasped for air, the fight gone. Moments later, he ripped a pouch loose from Long Tam's belt and handed it to Fast Bran. The man opened it, removing a cloth-bound item the size of a dinner plate. "All this excitement over such a small thing," he said.

The mask?

"Take … Take it and go," Long Tam gasped. "No more blood need be spilled this night."

Through the still-open door to the tavern, they heard a woman's long, drawn-out scream of agony. Fast Bran snorted. "That would be Fat Alicia. I’m afraid there does need to be more blood spilled this night."

"Don’t do this," she pleaded.

Fast Bran laughed as he drew out a set of jagged black-iron pincers, connected at the base to form a four-tipped claw that opened and closed depending on how it was held. "You recognize this, witch?"

"Please … Please don’t." Now, her voice broke in terror.

"That's right, an Iron Spider, just for you. You're going to die this night, but before you do, you're going to have to beg me to kill you—and you will."

"Please. I’ll leave the city. You’ll never see me again."

"Nobody is ever going to see you again." Fast Bran hooked the tip of one of the claws into her collar and ripped her shirt open, exposing her breasts. Long Tam shrieked and struggled, but the men held her in place as Fast Bran caressed her flesh with the claw, positioning it over the tender flesh of one of her breasts.

Bors’s friend had been right all those years ago. He was a hammer, but sometimes a hammer was exactly the right tool.

He gave no warning, merely slipped forward, swinging the axe at the neck of the closest man holding Long Tam. The axe blade cut through muscle, tendon, and bone, giving the man a lethal blow before he even realized he was in a fight. Bors pivoted, striking out with a side kick that snapped another man's knee sideways, sending him crashing into Fast Bran. Long Tam—reacting far faster than Bors would have thought—rammed her palm into the nose of the other man holding her. He fell back, grasping at his face. One of them came at Bors with a knife thrust, but Bors caught the blade on his axe head and then rammed its pointed horn into the man's face, feeling the impact jar in his shoulder.

The man screamed, grasping at his punctured face. Another man hesitated, his eyes darting from Bors to the man he had just disfigured. Before Bors could act, Long Tam slipped behind him and slashed his throat open with a knife she must have had hidden on her. Bors saw a flash of movement from his side and spun, catching Fast Bran's scimitar with the head of his axe. He hooked it around the man's blade, yanking him forward and punching him in the face, feeling immense satisfaction as his front teeth broke free. Fast Bran fell back, stumbling out of the alley as he screamed for help, his words garbled and wet. Bors turned to find the point of Fast Bran's scimitar in his face and Long Tam at the other end of it, holding it in a duelist's stance.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her breasts still exposed.

"Not your enemy," he said, his eyes darting toward her cleavage.

She glared at him, pulling her shirt closed with her other hand.

He shrugged, tossing his head.

At the sound of running footsteps behind them, Bors turned and saw at least six more men were pouring out of the tavern, Fast Bran urging them on. He heard rustling from the roof above, no doubt the men with crossbows looking for a firing angle into the alley. "We need to go," he said as he pushed the point of her scimitar aside with his axe head and grabbed her arm, trying to drag her with him down the alley.

She ripped her arm free. "Follow me," she snapped, breaking into a sprint.

He chased after her, and she soon led him through a series of alleys, taking turns seemingly at random but somehow avoiding all the dead ends. In minutes, they had drawn ahead of their pursuers. Bors, more out of shape than he'd like to admit, was soon breathing heavily and straining to keep up. Long Tam pulled ahead. Soon, she disappeared from sight entirely, leaving Bors alone.

"Balls," he wheezed, bent over and gasping for air. He heard the yells of the men searching for them and knew they'd find him soon. After all, the Narrows was their home, not his. He set his shoulders. He'd make them bleed for his life.

"Hurry," Long Tam hissed from farther up the alley, where she waited for him with a look of complete exasperation. "Do you want your balls lopped off?"

He sighed and hurried after her.

9

Bors followed Long Tam out of the Narrows to a small stone house in the Market District, an unremarkable residence no different from the many others crammed together, housing merchants and their families. Several times on the way here, they had hidden from small groups of armed men clearly searching for them. Out of the Narrows, though, the pursuit had vanished.

She waited before unlocking the door, listening to the silent dark city around them. Bors saw no one, heard nothing. What time was it? Past midnight, he guessed. "Will they just … give up, now that we're no longer in the Narrows?"

She shook her head. "No, they can't give up now, not after what they've already done this night. But out of the Narrows, they'll need to 'ware the Red Guard."

She pushed the door open and motioned Bors inside then softly closed and bolted the door behind them. The home was dark, and he heard her rustling about for several moments before a candle suddenly flared into life. He watched her, feeling uneasy. How did she light a candle without first striking spark to tinderbox? Once more, he felt out of his element here.

She cupped the flame, which burned with a clean fire—beeswax, he realized, more expensive than candles made from animal fat but less stink. Glancing about, he saw they stood in the foyer of a small but well-furnished home, the walls painted in bright, happy blue, with painted murals of desert flowers—a fine home for a small family. He lowered his voice. "Is there anyone—"

"The house is empty," she softly replied. "One of several I keep. I haven't been here in months and doubt Sly Tor knows of it."

"Who?"

Her gaze narrowed in suspicion. "The man who sent those killers."

She led him into a comfortable sitting room with plush couches and chairs. She placed the candle on a small table, standing behind it and watching him. She dressed like a man, in loose cotton pants and short boots. She held her shirt closed with one hand, but the other hand was out of sight beneath a short dark cloak she wore. Bors had no doubt she held a weapon in that hidden hand. Tall and clearly athletic, she was strikingly beautiful, with pale skin, dark eyes, and long raven-black hair. She carried herself with the arrogance of a jungle cat: beautiful, strong, and very dangerous. Had she been a soldier, she would have been an officer.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

"Why did you help me? Who are you?"

He slid his axe into his belt, dragged a stool over with his boot, and plopped himself down upon it, taking turns stretching his arms across his chest, loosening his tight shoulders. It had been some time since last he had fought. "I don’t like seeing women tortured."

She shook her head. "Try harder." Slipping backward, keeping a wary eye on him, she pulled herself up atop a couch, sitting on its back, one booted foot dangling, the other pulled up against her chest, her fingers resting upon the knee as she stared at him, waiting.

He met her gaze and sighed. "There was no way I was going to let them do … that."

Her intense violet eyes remained fixed on him. "Other men would have."

"I'm not other men."

"So it seems. But you're also not Hishtari. Your accent is odd, and you have a foreign look to you. Lyr?"

He inclined his head.

"So why did you help me?"

"Saved you. Helping's a much different horse."

For the first time, a trace of a smile appeared on her lips, gone again in a moment. "Why did you save me? Are you a hero from a song? Because you have the look of a killer, not a hero."

"I'm Bors."

She snorted. "What kind of a silly name is Bors?"

"Says the woman called Long Tam."

The scorn vanished from her features, and she diverted her gaze in embarrassment, but only for a moment. "Apologies. That was rude. Thank you for what you did. That was as bad a hole as any I've ever found myself in. I never suspected Sly Tor would start a war."

"I don't care about a war, but I need the mask, the Illthori artifact."

"Ah," she said, nodding. "I see. My hero wants the Mask of Storms."

"Is that what it's called?"

She smiled, her teeth flashing white. "You don’t know its name, Bors of Lyr? What else don't you know, I wonder?"

"Sadly, I suspect much. But I do know if I don't get that mask, a man named Dar will see me dead."

"Tuluth Dar, the Night Commander of the Red Guard?"

"The same."

"This is not a man to trust, Bors. You'd do well to leave this business be, make your way from the city while you still can. The men Dar makes use of tend to die—often badly."

He shook his head. "The gates are closed to me."

"There are ... other ways out of the city, secret ways."

He considered her, measuring her words. If there were secret ways from the city, the Shadow Guild would know of them. "You offer to help?"

"Perhaps we can help one another."

"You want me to help you get back the mask?"

"The mask? Yes, of course. But mostly I want you to help me kill a man."

"Who?"

"No one of any great importance, Bors of Lyr, just the First Master of the Shadow Guild of Port Talos."

He stared at her. "You want me to kill the—"

"No. I want you to help me kill Sly Tor."

"I'm just a dockworker."

"I very much doubt that, Bors of Lyr. But I have to kill Sly Tor. He's declared war on me."

"Wait him out."

She shook her head, moistening her lips with her tongue. "I can't. He wouldn’t have risked moving against me without also planning to kill the other masters. By sunrise, they'll be dead, and those few of my supporters who still live will be in hiding."

"Then run."

"You don't understand, Bors. He's killing my friends. Besides, even if I wanted to, I can't run. Sly Tor will have eyes on all the gates and the secret paths out of the city. The only chance I have is to move against him this night—right now while his men are out hunting me. He'll be vulnerable."

"How vulnerable?" What she proposed made a foolish kind of sense. Sometimes, the best course of action was to be bold.

"It won't be without risk. Sly Tor will be on his guard. But he needs to succeed this night, before anyone realizes what he's doing. I know how to find Sly Tor. I know more of his secrets than he realizes."

"You didn't know he was going to try to kill you."

"No, I didn't know that, but he missed, and I still live. Such mistakes demand payment in kind."

"Okay," Bors said, his mind racing. "But I keep this … Mask of Storms—just in case you can't get me out of the city. You can always steal it back from Dar."

She flashed him another dazzling smile. "A hard-struck bargain, Bors of Lyr." She jumped from her perch, extending her hand to his. He took it. Her grip was strong and sure. "Now, if you'll excuse me for a few minutes," she said, "I need to find another shirt and some tools. We have a task to do before the sun rises."

She swept from the room, leaving Bors alone with his thoughts. He sighed, running a hand through his thick hair, wondering how this had happened. The Matron must be laughing at me. The Shadow Guild, Tuluth Dar—even a sorcerer—and now this strange woman.

10

Long Tam led Bors through the sleeping city. He saw no one this time, not even a Red Guard patrol, but for no discernible reason, sometimes Long Tam would just stop, dropping down and pulling Bors with her. They'd remain motionless for long silent moments before finally getting up and moving forward once more, Long Tam never explaining why she had stopped. That she had seen or heard something, he didn't doubt. She was a ghost, a silent shadow in the night. Next to Long Tam, he felt like a lumbering bear.

It took longer than he would have thought, but they eventually found themselves in the Narrows once more, kneeling together behind a broken stone wall, spying upon a three-story warehouse nestled against the city's curtain wall. A red glow along the wall's ramparts presaged the coming dawn. They had an hour, maybe less, before the city began to wake. If they weren't successful by then, they wouldn’t be.

"This … Sly Tor, he's within that warehouse?" Bors whispered into her ear.

She nodded without taking her eyes from the building. "A charity kitchen, ostensibly run by the Moon Temple, but really Sly Tor's lair. Even if the Red Guard raided the Narrows, they'd never dare set foot inside."

"How do you know it's not really a kitchen?"

She looked down her nose at him, her gaze incredulous. "This is the Narrows. No one gives anything away. Those who wait in line for porridge and bread also bring stolen merchandise and information. They leave with Sly Tor's instructions. More stolen produce moves through that building than you could possibly imagine."

"I see no sentries," he said.

"They're there, watching the entrance. We can't get in from the street."

"What then?"

She reached out and squeezed his knee. "We go another way."

* * *

A wooden tannery sat next to Sly Tor's warehouse, the stench enough to strip the hair from Bors's nostrils. Rats, some as large as cats, scurried about in the narrow gap between the buildings, seemingly unconcerned with the presence of Long Tam and Bors. She placed a hand atop his shoulder, stopping him, and pointed up the side of the tannery to its sloping roof. She met his eye and mouthed a single word: "Wait."

She had to be kidding.

She wasn't.

Facing the tannery wall, she began to climb it, easily finding purchase and scaling it like a spider. In moments, she disappeared from view onto the tannery’s sloping tiled roof. He waited, crouched in the alley, as time stretched on. In the east, the horizon was a haze of red.

We're running out of time.

Then he heard a soft rustle from above, and a knotted rope came slithering down the side of the building, its end dangling just beside his face. Where did she find a rope? Gripping it with both hands, he began to scale the side of the building. It took him longer than it had taken Long Tam, and despite his best efforts, he still made far too much noise, but soon he reached the top, and Long Tam pulled him up onto the foot-wide ledge that ran around the roof. He knelt there, leaning against the tiles, breathing heavily, his heart pounding.

"Ancestors, you’re fat," she whispered.

"It's muscle."

She slipped away, stepping over a corpse lying on the ledge, half-dangling from it. Even in the poor light, he saw it had been a young man dressed in dark clothing—a sentry, obviously. A loaded crossbow sat beside the body, and Long Tam picked it up and checked its missile. "Another needless death?" he whispered.

Long Tam glanced at the corpse and then shrugged.

"How many nameless men died for this damned mask?"

"His name was Tall Frog. And I think you no stranger to killing."

"Tall Frog?"

"Well ... that was what we called him, his guild name. I think his real name was Ganjy, something like that. We never use our birth names."

"Another enemy of yours?"

"Not at all. We used to run together when I first came to the city. I liked him, but he chose to throw his lot in with Sly Tor, and well … choices come with consequences."

She turned and in a half crouch, balancing the crossbow on her hip, made her way along the ledge. Bors followed, stepping over the corpse of Tall Frog.

She's not wrong about consequences, he mused.

She stopped near a corner, staring across the gap to Sly Tor's warehouse, a distance of perhaps ten paces—too far to jump. "Why do you name it the Mask of Storms?" he asked.

Her gaze remained focused on the roof of the warehouse. "According to my sources, the mask was taken from an ancient Illthori temple in the Red Desert." She paused, glancing at him, a gleam in her dark eyes. "They say anyone who wears the mask can control the weather, dispel storms—or even cause them."

Bors snorted. "Please."

She shrugged then turned her attention back to the other building. "Believe what you will, but know that many do think it true, powerful men who will kill to possess it." She reached out and squeezed his forearm. "There, do you see it?" She pointed across the roof with the crossbow.

"See what?" Bors saw nothing but broken tiles and decades of bird shit.

She sighed. "A trip wire running at ankle height from the weather vane to the corner."

Again, he saw nothing. "I'll take your word for it."

"How are you still alive?"

"I'm good at hitting people. So what does it do?"

"I have no idea. Set off an alarm, kill us … nothing we want to see."

"So we avoid it?"

"What a wonderful idea."

"We still need to find a way across."

"Hold this," she said handing him the loaded crossbow before turning and scampering up the sloped tiles of the tannery. She moved quickly and silently, without disturbing a single tile as she made her way to the stone chimney at the summit. Bors shook his head, marveling at her agility. What a scout she'd make. Holding onto the chimney for balance, she reached into it and withdrew a long metal pole at least ten feet in length and as wide as his thumb. Balancing the pole across her shoulders, she scurried back down to him, flashing him another smile. She had known it would be there. It was becoming clear he was far out of his depths among these people.

She slowly extended the pole, resting it upon the lip of the other roof. He stared suspiciously at it. He was a soldier, not a thief, and probably twice her weight. Would it be strong enough to support him? Taking his chances with Dar was starting to look better—until he remembered the Iscari Cradle.

Without another word, she took the crossbow back and danced out upon the pole, which sagged slightly under her weight. In moments, she reached the other side, where she dropped down on a knee, the stock of the crossbow in her shoulder as she scanned the rooftop, looking for threats. The only sound was the rustling of dried leaves blown about by a hot dry wind. Apparently satisfied, she met Bors's eye and nodded.

He ground his teeth as he stared at the pole and the street below. What am I doing here? Placing a foot upon the pole, he slowly transferred his weight onto it. As expected, it sagged, and it took all of his willpower to remain where he was and not scurry back onto the ledge. Long Tam stared at him in puzzlement, as if he had just decided to remove his clothing and dance naked in the street. Frowning at him, she motioned for him to hurry. Once, a lifetime ago, he had seen a travelling circus in the capital with its acrobats and wirewalkers. He tried to mimic how they had performed before the crowd, extending his arms to the side for balance. He took a step and then another. The pole bobbed under his weight, sending a queasy feeling through his gut, but he focused on Long Tam's face, moving fast, practically running the last few steps. He landed heavily beside her, beaming at her. "I made it," he whispered, only half believing it.

She shook her head.

"Well, I did."

She led him around the warehouse's ledge, in the opposite direction of the trip wire she had pointed out earlier, which Bors now finally saw for himself. Then, she pointed out a second trip wire, and they both carefully stepped over it before stopping before a shuttered window. Once again, she handed him the crossbow and peered through the crack of the shutters. "There's a lock on the other side," she whispered. "That's new."

"Do you want me to break it?"

She rolled her eyes at him and then bent closer to the wooden shutters, placing her palms against the wooden boards and closing her eyes. Her lips moved, and her fingers flexed, with several opening and closing. The language in which she whispered was foreign to him, with an odd musical cadence. The hairs on the back of his neck stiffened.

What—

He heard a crack, followed by a soft clunk as something metallic fell on the other side of the window. Long Tam pulled the shutters open, exposing a storeroom. She retrieved her crossbow from him and darted inside.

Bors followed, seeing the two pieces of the broken lock lying on the dust-covered wooden floor. "What are you?" he asked, fearing her for the first time.

"Oh, grip your manhood. That was nothing more than a cantrip, barely magic at all. Most of my mother's teachings didn't stick with me, but some things even I remember."

"Don’t do that again!"

Sniffing, she moved away, crossing the room to place an ear against the closed door. With the gray dawn light through the opened window, even Bors managed to avoid stumbling into the wooden boxes and barrels inside the storeroom. He stared at the back of Long Tam's head as she carefully edged the door open and peered through the crack. Magic? Matron help me, what have I gotten myself mixed up with?

She slipped out the door, and Bors followed, pulling his fighting axe from his belt. A wooden hallway cloaked in darkness led to a set of stairs leading down. Long Tam crept down the steps, with Bors just behind her. The stairs came out into the main warehouse, where stacks of boxes and barrels, and half-loaded wagons sat about, seemingly without any order. For a charity kitchen, it was surprisingly quiet at this time of morning, when it should be bustling with cooks and volunteers. Nor, now that he thought about it, had he seen any beggars waiting outside. Long Tam had been correct: this was a front.

She grabbed his arm, pulling him down with her behind a stack of boxes that reeked of old potatoes. Moments later, a sentry stepped out from the shadows and sauntered toward them, a hack-sword resting atop his shoulder. Bors held his breath, remaining silent behind the boxes. The sentry paused for a moment but then moved on, now softly whistling to himself. Long Tam rose and raised the crossbow to her shoulder, but Bors pushed it aside and shook his head. She glared at him, clearly frustrated by his stupidity, but he ignored her, moving in a crouch on the outer edges of his feet. Despite his stealth, he must have made a noise, or perhaps the man simply sensed something, because just as Bors reached him, he spun about, his eyes widening. Bors kneed him in the balls and then cracked him in the back of the head with his axe handle—hard enough to put him to sleep without shattering his skull. He caught him and dragged him behind the boxes where Long Tam waited, displeasure wafting from her like heat.

She could be unhappy if she chose, but Bors didn't kill needlessly, not anymore.

Long Tam then led him around the base of the warehouse to another set of wooden steps leading up to what had the look of offices. At the top of the landing, light shone through the closed crack of a wooden door. Long Tam paused before the stairs and then whispered into his ear. "Walk only where I place my feet. Sly Tor will have a secret way out. We can't give him the chance to take it."

Bors nodded.

Long Tam slipped up the stairs.

11

Sly Tor paced within his office, a cup of tea in his hand. Fast Bran, his cheek freshly stitched with catgut, sat nearby, holding a blood-soaked rag against his shattered front teeth. The man was lucky he still lived. How could he have messed up so badly? Perhaps Sly Tor needed to make some further changes in his organization.

While much had gone according to plan this night, with three of the five guild masters already dead, the single most important death had eluded them—Long Tam. Someone had saved her, a new player in this bloody game, and Sly Tor didn't like new players. Still, her power had been shattered, her supporters dead or in hiding. Sly Tor would soon rule undisputed in an all-new Shadow Guild.

"'ell runn," Fast Bran mumbled. "Shesh no 'hoice."

Sly Tor glared at him, shaking his head.

Fast Bran looked away, wincing in pain.

Sly Tor sipped the last of his tea and then gazed into the dregs. His mother had been a fortune reader who could read the residue of tea. What would she say if she saw his cup? "When the sun rises, I want you to spread the word. Tell those in hiding that if they present themselves to me and swear allegiance, I will spare them. Say there's been enough blood spilled, and I'd have peace."

"'ill uu?"

Sly Tor sighed. "No, of course—"

The door to his office opened, and Long Tam slipped inside, a crossbow raised to her shoulder. Behind her, a dark-haired, bearded man with a fighting axe followed. Sly Tor's breath caught in his throat, and he hesitated. Before Fast Bran could even sit forward, Long Tam released her bolt, and it slammed into his enforcer's face, just above his nose, punching through the back of his skull and coating the painting on the wall behind him with his brains. Fast Bran and his chair fell backward onto the floor.

Sly Tor stumbled back, his fingers reaching for the knife on his belt, but the bearded man, a foreigner by his looks, swept forward, his axe held ready to strike. "Don't do it," the man warned.

Sly Tor showed him his palms.

"Not so fast after all," said Long Tam, dropping the crossbow atop Fast Bran's still-twitching corpse before drifting over to Sly Tor to glance at the teacup in his hand. "Is there more tea?"

His heart thudding painfully, Sly Tor smiled and forced calm into his voice. He motioned toward the pot on his desk. "Help yourself."

"Thank you." She poured herself a cup and then sat upon the edge of his desk, sipping it and watching him with those damned strange eyes of hers.

How did this all go wrong so quickly?

Sly Tor assessed the man with the axe. He had a soldier's shoulders and posture, definitely a foreigner, probably from Lyr. The Red Guard had been looking all day for such a man, believing him involved in the raid upon the ship last night. "Who's your friend?"

"Master Sly Tor," said Long Tam. "Meet Bors. Bors is from Lyr. I’m embarrassed to admit, I don't know a great deal about him at all, but I do know he's good at hitting people and rescuing damsels in distress."

Sly Tor snorted. "Whatever she's told you, she's playing you. She only looks beautiful."

Long Tam's smile grew wide. "You think me beautiful?"

"Only on the outside, witch," Sly Tor hissed.

"Now you're just being mean." Her smile vanished. "And rude."

The man, Bors, frowned at her and then stepped closer to Sly Tor. "Where is the Mask of Storms? Tell me, and I'll spare your life."

Sly Tor's eyes darted to Long Tam, but she pointedly looked away, sipping her tea.

"I give you my word," Bors insisted. "All I want is the mask. You can flee the city."

Now, Long Tam met Sly Tor's gaze, a trace of a smile on her lips. "Yes, Master Sly Tor, give us the mask, and you can run away with your life … I promise." The witch's eyes practically glowed with amusement.

"Look. I underestimated you. I see that now. But don't be hasty. Consider the business opportunity before us, just you and me now. We can run the guild by ourselves. Think of the silver."

"I am. I'm also thinking of all the young girls you've put in chains over the years and turned into whores."

"Don't be naïve! It's always been like this. It will always be like this. You think it'll be any different without me? You'll do the same."

"Enough of this!" said Bors. "The mask!"

Sly Tor, feeling the certainty of his death, rounded on the foreigner, his anger growing. "The Mask of Storms? What stupidity! Kamanth Kul, First Councilor Davros, now you? It's nothing but—"

He paused, mid-word, as Long Tam pushed herself onto her feet and wordlessly swept up against him, gripping the back of his neck with one hand and pulling his face toward hers. She kissed him hard, her lips pushing against his. Sudden pain erupted from his chest, as if a fire burned in his heart. Staggering back, he now saw the small bloody knife in her hand. "Desert … witch," he managed to gasp as his legs gave out beneath him and he fell to the floor, his vision already growing dim.

"That's it? No clever last words, Master Sly Tor?" she asked.

The last thing he saw was her boots.

12

"Damn it, woman." Bors's anger flared as he yanked her back by the arm and knelt beside Sly Tor. A moment's glance was enough to see her blade had pierced his heart and Sly Tor was already dead.

"Was I unclear as to our intent this night?" she said from behind him. "We came to kill him, remember?"

"I need the mask," he said through gritted teeth, rising to his feet and glaring at her. "Without it, I'm dead."

"I told you, I'll get you out of the city. In a week or so, this will all be—"

"I don't have a week," he snapped.

"Oh for the love of Lintara's tears." She turned away and approached a tapestry behind the desk showing a storm savaging ships at sea. Gripping the tapestry, she pulled it free of the wall, exposing the wooden paneling behind it.

He moved closer, staring in confusion as she began to tap the paneling with the hilt of her knife. "A secret compartment?"

"Of course he has a hidden compartment," she answered. Then, as she moved over the wall, the tapping abruptly sounded different. She looked over her shoulder and winked. "The man has no imagination."

"Had," Bors said, his anger gone.

She thrust the point of her knife into a seam so narrow his eyes almost passed over it. She applied pressure with her blade, exposing a small hidden cover, a door a foot long and half as wide. "On the other hand," she said softly, peering at the crack, "he was crafty. Move to your right." Bors did as she directed, and with her knife still wedged into the crack, she closed her eyes and began to chant again, the fingers of her free hand making bizarre gestures.

Once again, Bors felt an eerie presence in the air. "I don't like this sorcery."

"Shh," she said. A moment later, a hidden lock broke, and the compartment popped open, and a shape hissed and lashed out from the hidden space. Long Tam's hand snapped out, catching a writhing purple-and-gold snake, less than half a foot long and thinner than her finger. She held the snake behind its head as its writhing body tried to wrap itself around her forearm. It hissed again, baring its tiny fangs, but could do nothing. "Well, look at you," she purred, bringing her lips close to the snake.

"Is it venomous?"

She raised an eyebrow. "It’s a Crimson Nitebiter. A single dose from this little darling will kill a bull within five heartbeats."

With her thumb against the back of the snake's head, she snapped its neck and then let it fall to the floor, where it coiled and uncoiled in its death spasms. She peered into the compartment while Bors stared at the still-moving snake.

"I thought so," she whispered, pulling out a dark glass vial. A liquid the consistency of honey coated the insides of the glass.

"What is it?"

"Venom. Harvested from our little friend, probably over a period of many months." She nudged the writhing body of the Nitebiter with her booted toe.

"Why?"

She cocked her head, regarding him with those large violet eyes. "What a peaceful kingdom Lyr must be."

"Hardly," he said. "Put it back."

"Why?"

"Because we didn't come here to find poison so you can kill more men."

She glared at him but slammed the bottle back within the secret compartment, muttering to herself about waste.

He ignored her. "The mask?"

"Well, well," she said as she drew out more items. One was a small leather pouch that clinked when she hefted it in her palm. "About thirty-five to forty gold eagles," she judged. "Enough to keep me in pretty silks and even prettier men for some time." Her lips turned down in a fake pout. "Unless you want me to put this back as well?"

He shook his head in exasperation. "The mask."

The leather sack disappeared under her cloak as she rummaged through the contents of the compartment. She then withdrew a large silver armband, secured with a swinging hasp. Without a word, she slipped it over his bicep and snapped it closed. It fit snugly and was no doubt worth more than he'd earn in a year on the docks. "Gaudy, but on you it's appropriate."

Bors trailed his fingers over the armband, an unbidden memory flashing before his eyes.

"Ha!" she exclaimed, pulling out the same cloth-bound item that Fast Bran had taken from her. "I knew he'd keep it close. Sly Tor had trust issues."

"The mask?" Bors asked, forgetting the armband.

She tossed it to him nonchalantly. "You can bring it to the Night Commander if you wish, but I wouldn't. He'll betray you."

He pulled the edge of the cloth back, revealing a white porcelain mask of a humanlike face but one with feline features. Had the Illthori truly crafted this?

They both spun about and stared at the door as they heard the sound of pounding heavy footsteps running up the wooden stairs. An abrupt crack of wood splintering resonated through the night, followed by an unearthly shriek of rage and pain.

Walk only where I place my feet, Long Tam had told him, the meaning clear: one of the stairs had been trapped—and someone had just set that trap off.

The cry of pain, though, came from no man.

Long Tam stared at Bors, her eyes wide, and he shoved the mask back into her hands before moving in front of her, his axe held ready in the ox position, the head near his ear. A nightmare burst through the door, literally ripping its frame to splinters as it exploded into the office, and the monstrously large demon shuddered to a halt before them, shaking bits of wood and plaster from its massive shoulders. It stood upright like a man, with two long arms ending in pincers and misshapen legs. A monstrous blending of man and insect, it swayed before them, with a far-too-wide torso wearing plates of iron armor. No, Bors realized in horror, the armor pieces were melded directly to the demon's pale-white flesh—like an insect's shell. A foot-long horn sat atop its bald head, a head entirely missing a neck. Two antennae, at least two feet long, swayed on either side of the horn. The demon glared at them with a single bulbous eye the size of a man's fist. Its other eye was pale white and split in two by a scar. A large open maw, filled with salivating mandibles, clicked grotesquely. Just for a moment, Bors saw a flash of human recognition in its single eye—replaced immediately by hatred.

The monster charged Bors, and he ducked under its outstretched arms, moving to the side as he cut down on its forward leg. But the axe head slid off the armor plate on the beast's thigh. The beast roared and reached for him, but Bors danced back, swinging the axe one-handed as he traded power for range. This time, his axe head cut into the leathery white skin along the beast's unprotected hip, and watery yellow blood and pus sprayed from the gash. Long Tam threw a dart that lodged in the back of the monster's head, and it spun, roaring toward her now.

"No!" Bors yelled, rushing forward and slamming his axe into its back, knocking it off-balance but only scoring sparks from the armored plate.

The monster turned back to Bors, far faster than he would have thought capable, hammering one of its huge pincers against his head, sending him flying across the office to shatter a foot table. Bors tried to rise but fell back again, spots of light dancing before him. He rose on hands and knees, shaking his head. Get up and fight, soldier! Fight or die.

Dizziness swept over him, and he slid forward once again, pulling the carpet that had been beneath the table with him. From where he lay, he saw Long Tam, scimitar in hand, charge the demon.

"No … Run," Bors mumbled, his fingers closing over the haft of his fighting axe.

Long Tam slashed, but her scimitar drew only sparks from the monster's armored hide. The beast smashed her to the floor with no more effort than a man battling a toddler. Bors was helpless as the monster picked up the cloth-bound mask with its pincers before also lifting the still form of Long Tam, casually tossing her over its massive armor-clad shoulder.

"Wait," he gasped, but the room spun about him wildly, and he had to close his eyes.

He must have passed out, because he woke to the sound of angry yells—Sly Tor's men!

Long Tam and the monster were gone.

Then he saw the exposed trapdoor beneath him that had been hidden by the rug and the table Bors had broken. He'll have a secret way out, Long Tam had warned him.

He pried the lid up, revealing a ladder and darkness. He swung his legs into the opening, resting them upon the ladder. Holding his axe beneath his arm, he tried to pull the edge of the carpet back over the trapdoor, but he slipped and fell, the trapdoor slamming shut above him. His shoulder flared with pain as he arrested his fall on another rung of the ladder. Too weak to hold on any longer, he fell into darkness.

Part III

Blood on the Hill

13

Bors knelt beside the hoof prints, trailing his fingers over their edges. He chewed the inside of his lip as he considered the tracks, before looking over his shoulder at the other horsemen, twenty-three of them, all Argot Light Cavalry, each man mounted on Kandori Jennets—steeds noted for their endurance and ambled gaits. Like Bors, the men wore light leather armor and half helms. Tied to their pommels were long horse swords, and each man held a lance, its metal head fire-blackened to ensure the sun wouldn't gleam from its tip and give away their presence. Every sixth man bore a horse bow as well. None of the men carried shields. They were scouts and under orders to avoid unnecessary battle.

"Well?" Collard asked, his face reflecting his unease. Collard was Bors's second-in-command. At eighteen, he was only a year younger than Bors, and his light-blond beard sprouted bravely from his chin but left bare patches along his cheeks. Despite his youth, Collard was a superb horseman; they all were.

"Two parties," Bors answered. "At least a hundred horses in total." Bors rose to his feet, staring northward in the direction of the river, where a series of hills rose above the forest. "The second party trailed the first, ruining the tracks, but I'd guess there were at least two or three times as many riders in the second."

"Not our concern, Bors. The duke's orders were clear: engage only in self-defense. We should report—"

"This is all wrong," Bors said. "Why so many horses, and to what end? Whoever it is, they waited for our army to ford the river and form up for battle. Why?" Bors stared ahead of the tracks, in the direction of the low, sloping hills that led to the banks of the river; then he turned east, following the trail of the second set of riders where it had come from an old logging trail in the woods. "And how did they even know the army would come this way? There are three fording points within a day's march, and two of them are better than the one Ergil chose." This makes no sense. Bors ground his teeth as he tried to untangle this knot. A force this size still wouldn't be enough for a surprise attack on our rear—even if they could ford the river without being seen—which seems unlikely. They could hit our supply lines, but Ergil only need send the reserve to run them off. Why hide a force behind us. Why take the risk?

"Bors," said Collard, his voice carrying an edge of concern. "Duke Ergil would want to know about this. Whatever they're planning, he can send a counterforce—if he knows about it."

Bors frowned. You mean if I do my job. He placed his foot in his stirrup and swung up into Azuth's saddle. His mount was ill-tempered and disagreeable, prone to wanting to choose his own route and snap at anyone trying to decide for him.

Much like Bors.

He pressed his lips together, his options clashing in his head. The obvious—smart—course of action was to follow his orders, but his gut warned he was missing something, something critical—and it involved the first party that had passed through. The enemy had risked much, lying in wait as the army passed by. They wouldn't have taken such a chance for a supply train. Besides, there were no wagon tracks.

He drew his lance from the holder on his saddle and balanced it atop his hip as he guided Azuth about with his knees to face the other men. The noonday sun beat down upon them, heating Bors's leather half helm and cooking his skull, but his thinking was remarkably clear. By the time Bors and his scouts returned to report this matter to Duke Ergil—or, more likely, one of his aides—it would be too late to stop whatever was going to happen. Bors glanced at Collard, smiling when he saw Collard shake his head and roll his eyes. "We're outnumbered, Bors."

"They don't know we're here. Besides, we don't need to win a fight, just ruin whatever it is they have planned. There's enough of us for that."

"Bors … the duke. He'll be furious."

Bors edged Azuth past Collard to address the others. "Brothers, the rebels think to play games with us. They insult us."

Collard muttered something about "fools and blood," but Bors ignored him, feeling his excitement grow. The men glanced warily at one another, and several of their horses pranced nervously.

"Oh, come on," said Bors, shaking his head at them. He stood in his stirrups, holding his lance in the air, looking down upon them. "Did you come all this way just to let other men fight for you? The enemy is right there!" He pointed forward with his lance, in the direction the tracks led, toward the wooded hills and the river on the other side. A single large hill dominated the terrain, and Bors instinctively knew that was where he'd find both groups of riders. "I know what you're thinking—there aren't enough of them for us to bother with."

Now, the men chuckled, smiling at one another.

"They're up to something, something sneaky, but only we get to be sneaky. Let's go ruin their day." He trotted Azuth past the men, meeting each one's gaze. "One charge, brothers. That's all we need. Hit them from behind, and then if we must, we'll leave them pissing after us." Bors saw in their eyes, they wanted to fight, not scout.

Even Collard was nodding in encouragement now. "One charge, Bors."

Bors edged his mount closer to his friend's and gripped his upper arm. "One charge. Just long enough to say 'hello.' "

The decision made, Bors led Azuth and the others at a fast canter. As they rode, the men fanned out into an arrowhead formation. Collard was right about one thing: if Bors failed, Duke Ergil would be angry. He'd take Bors's rank—if not his head.

The trail was fresh. The enemy must be only minutes ahead. Their mounts sped through the thin forest, gaining ground. He couldn't see the river through the trees, but he could smell the water. As expected, the trail led to the large tree-covered hill. From its summit, it would provide an amazing view of the Lyrian army and the upcoming battle.

Azuth snorted, his senses so much stronger than Bors's. A moment later, Bors heard the screams of men and animals and the clash of weapons. The rebels had begun their attack. Bors urged Azuth on, breaking into a light gallop, lowering his lance. Soon, the woods resonated with the pounding of horses' hooves. Bors burst through the last of the trees, coming out at the base of the hill.

A battle took place upon its slope, where rebel horsemen came at a much smaller party of Lyrian warriors holding the hilltop, trying to overwhelm them with superior numbers. When Bors saw the golden banner displaying the red rose of Lyr flying from the hilltop, he understood the enemy's intent in a moment. He charged forward, urging Azuth to his greatest speed for the final burst.

Azuth exploded up the slope.

"Lyr! Lyr!" Bors screamed, his blood pounding in his ears.

Already engaged, the rebels couldn't turn in time. Bors's lance took an enemy rider in the back, shattering the wooden lance. Azuth crashed into the rider's mount, sending the poor animal tumbling to collide with other enemy riders.

Bors drew his horse sword—a three-foot-long curved blade—and cut open a man's face, sending him falling from the saddle. Another rider charged him, and their mounts thundered together, almost knocking Bors down. Their blades clashed and rebounded, and then they swept past one another before turning and coming back. Dozens of other men mirrored their battle, and in moments, the slope was a chaotic storm of blade, horse, and man.

The man Bors fought carried a round horse-shield and wore fine ring mail and an iron helm with cheek guards through which Bors saw dark rage-filled eyes and a pleated black beard. Twice now, the tip of Bors's blade scraped uselessly over the metal rings of the man's armor. His opponent, realizing his advantage, pressed Bors, standing upright in his stirrups to hammer down at him with a series of powerful blows. Unable to take the offensive, Bors could only weather the blows with his sword in a hanging guard. The man, perhaps sensing victory, leaned out farther, and Bors managed to grip the edge of his shield with one hand as he squeezed Azuth's flanks with his heels. The superbly trained animal danced back, pulling the off-balanced rider from the saddle.

Before he could climb to his feet, Bors rode over him, letting Azuth prance upon his body. Bors sought another foe, but engaged on two sides, the enemy broke, their courage shattered, and rode for their lives.

Several of Bors's men turned their steeds to give chase, but he screamed at them to stop. "Let them go. Help the wounded."

He climbed from Azuth, holding the panting animal's bridle as he whispered soothing words into his ear, his own heart thudding wildly in his chest. A man in burnished ring mail rode up to him on a breathtakingly beautiful white warhorse. The man wore a silver armband locked about his upper arm, his speckled helm sparkling in the sunlight, a well-trimmed red beard visible beneath it. Blood dripped from the longsword the man carried. Behind him rode four other men, all wearing the gold cloaks of the Kingsguard, their cold eyes sizing Bors up.

"Who are you, soldier?" the red-bearded warrior asked.

Bors dropped to his knees beside Azuth's trembling legs and bent his head. The nervous animal scuttled backward, giving Bors and the men space. "Horse-Sergeant Castin Borstarrion, my king," he said, his breathing wild. "Of the Argot Light Cavalry."

"Stand, Sergeant … Borstarrion. You've just saved your king's life. I won't have you on your knees."

Bors rose, aware now that those of his men who were close enough to recognize the king had already dismounted, including Collard, and had dropped to their knees.

"That goes for all of you, on your feet!" the king commanded. "Come with me, Sergeant."

The king turned and rode back up the hill.

All around Bors, men were calming panicked animals, tending to the wounded. As Bors followed the king, a quick glance showed him that most of his men were unhurt, with only two empty saddles. Speed and audacity had carried them to victory this day.

One charge, Bors thought.

Atop the hill, the king had dismounted and stood beside a small group of retainers and knights. Bors joined him, seeing immediately that his first guess had been correct: from the hill's summit, he had an unobstructed view of the river on the other side as well as the massed ranks of the Lyrian army in battle formation. The battle had not yet begun, and far off in the hazy distance, he could just make out the battle lines of the opposing rebel force.

"I came to see the battle," the king said, clapping Bors on the shoulder, "but found myself engaged. Foul luck."

Bors shook his head. "They knew you were coming, my king—or knew someone would be coming. We found tracks where they had lain in wait."

The king stared at him wordlessly for a few moments and then turned to regard one of his Kingsguard knights. The knight nodded. "He has the truth of it, my liege. I recognized their leader, Vant Ors. This was a trap."

"The Blood-Raven?" asked the king. "Was he among those who ran?"

The knight shook his head and glanced at Bors. "This one's horse trampled him."

So that was whom that man in the ring mail had been—Vant Ors, the Blood-Raven, a well-known Xi'urian mercenary famed for his audacity.

"A pity," the king snarled. "I'd know who betrayed—"

"Father!" A young woman in her early teens with long bright-red hair pushed past the bodyguards to throw herself upon the king, wrapping her arms around his waist. Tears ran down the girl's freckled cheeks.

"Be calm, Marina," the king said soothingly, holding her tight. "It'll take more than a Xi'urian mercenary to stop me." He stared at Bors. "What did you say your name was again, Sergeant?"

"Borstarrion, my king. Castin Borstarrion."

"Come closer."

Bors did, and the king removed his armband and snapped it in place around Bors's upper arm. "I think you're going to have a most interesting career, Horse-Captain Borstarrion."

The king stood back, beaming, and the Princess Marina gripped Bors's hand between her own. "May the Matron's love keep you safe, warrior. Thank you for our lives."

The men circled Bors—both the Kingsguard and Bors's own troop—and cheered, their voices echoing atop the hill.

Bors bolted upright in darkness, smashing his head against a low tunnel roof. His skin drenched in sweat, he stared about himself, trying to understand how he came to be here—wherever here was. His fingers trailed over the armband Long Tam had slipped in place over his bicep, and he remembered—the Mask of Storms, a monstrous demon, and—

It had taken Long Tam.

14

Long Tam awoke to find herself atop a large wooden worktable, her arms tied painfully back over her head, her legs bound together so tightly her toes had gone numb. The chamber, a vast round study of some type, stunk of filth and rot. Although the room was dark, sunlight cut through the wooden slats in the ceiling. A filthy rag had been rammed into her mouth, causing her jaw to ache fiercely and making it impossible to speak. Without the use of her fingers, she couldn't cast a cantrip, nor could she call upon any other tribal magic with the gag in place. She panicked, bucking her hips and thrashing wildly against the bonds but accomplishing nothing; they were far too tight.

However, her sudden movements did attract the attention of the old man bent over a nearby worktable. He rose, muttering softly to himself about "distractions" as he approached Long Tam. He was an ugly man with long, scraggly hair hanging limply from around the fuzz atop his balding head, his robes were stained and threadbare, and ink smudged his face and fingers. He stared down at her with a nearly complete lack of interest, a rare occurrence around men.

He began to speak but then coughed and hawked, clearing his throat of phlegm. "It's good you're awake, I guess," he finally said with a gravelly voice. "Although to be blunt, your state of awareness doesn't really affect the ritual." He smiled, patting her cheek. A shudder coursed through her. His touch was cold, like that of a corpse. "To me, though, it seems wrong somehow to go through with it while you're not … participating fully, like cheating somehow. I'm a bit of a perfectionist. I like everything to be just right."

Ritual? What ritual?

She stared at him in confusion and then tried to make him understand with muffled grunts that she wanted him to remove the gag.

He didn't.

Instead, he began to unlace the front of her shirt, to pull it apart. She bucked her hips, thrashing about wildly. "Stop that," he said. "I have no such base interests in your kind. Your flesh is my canvas is all." Once he had exposed her breasts and belly, he turned away and ruffled among his belongings on another table. She remained still, sweat soaking the back of her shirt, her mind racing. From the shadows to her left, she heard an oddly familiar clicking noise. Craning her neck, she managed to lift her head high enough to see the monstrous man-beetle that had attacked her and Bors earlier. It crouched beside a bookshelf, making that clicking noise with its mandibles as it watched her, its one good eye shining hungrily. A current of terror ran up her spine, and she moaned in fear.

The old man came back, this time holding a brush and a glass vial of dark-red liquid. Was it blood? He dabbed the brush in the vial and began to paint markings upon her flesh, squinting as he worked, his thin, liver-spotted hand trembling. The fluid was cold and sticky, and she strained to raise her head to see what he was doing.

"The runes are also unnecessary for the ritual, if we're being honest with one another," he said with a wink. He paused and then cocked his head as he examined a rune he had drawn around her belly button. Grunting to himself, he touched up the mark before nodding in satisfaction. "You don't know who I am, do you?"

She tried to speak, to convince him to remove the gag. She had yet to meet a man she couldn't sway—even if her looks were of no interest.

"I wouldn't expect any associate of Sly Tor to understand this honor, but I am Kamanth Kul, master of this tower and the arcane arts."

Merciful Lintara, the sorcerer!

She thrashed once again, her mind wild with panic. The sorcerer smiled, obviously pleased with her fear, and then began to paint her flesh once again. When she began to buck, he paused, his eyes hardening. "Stop that! If you make me make a mistake, I'll let my servant eat your fingers and toes—I don't need them for the ritual."

She forced herself to lie still, believing every word. Her heart continued to pound against her ribcage. Was Bors alive? Would he come for her?

No, of course not, you foolish woman, she told herself. You're a daughter of the First Sun Seer, not some helpless girl, and Bors—if he lives—is no hero. He'll run—as would you were your circumstances reversed. She closed her eyes and forced herself to be calm. Save yourself.

Kul grunted in satisfaction and closed up his vial. "It isn't quite … perfect, but it will have to do. Besides, as I said, all that truly matters is the Tear of H'althos." He frowned. "Did I mention the Tear?"

Once again, she tried to talk through the gag, to get him to remove it, but he stepped away, returning a moment later with a foot-long blade seemingly constructed from black glass. He held its point near her eye. The edges seemed like razors. "This is the Tear of H'althos. Its purchase nearly beggared me, but I had to have it. I don't know exactly what its original purpose was, but I do know that if I use it to take your life, it should negate the effects of the curse placed upon the mask. At least that's what I've been able to decipher from ancient scrolls. If the scrolls are correct, all the Tear of H'althos needs is a trickle of magical energy channeled into it before use to activate it, followed by the wielder speaking the name of the item to be cleansed. I won't know for certain until after I shove it through your heart, but I can't imagine why it wouldn't work."

The mask! He thinks to use the mask. She thrashed and yelled into the gag, willing desperation into her eyes.

He patted her cheek. "You have until sunset. The hour shouldn't matter, either but … perfectionist." He smiled through his brown teeth before turning away. Moments later, she heard the sound of a door closing.

With Kul gone, the man-beetle monstrosity moved closer and stood at the end of the table, where it watched her hungrily, its mandibles dripping hot saliva onto her face and neck.

15

In complete darkness, Bors reached about him, feeling his way. Sly Tor's bolt-hole, a tunnel reinforced with wood, was just high enough for Bors to crawl on hands and knees. He couldn’t tell how far he had fallen, but the air was cool, meaning he was likely underground. He felt the ladder behind him but needed to go forward, not back. Sly Tor's men would be in the office by now. Perhaps they didn't know about the bolt-hole. Perhaps that man-insect demon had created so much destruction that the trapdoor was hidden. Bors didn't know, but he knew he couldn't stay here. At any moment, they were likely to find the ladder and him.

That demon had recognized him, Bors was certain of it. No, it may be a demon now, but it used to be that one-eyed bastard Grottle, I'm sure of it—and Grottle serves the sorcerer Kamanth Kul.

What had he gotten himself mixed up in?

His fingers trailed over the cold metal head of his axe, and he gripped it in one hand as he began to crawl in the dark. His skull pounded, and his hair was sticky with blood, but he didn't seem to be seriously injured; nothing was broken. How long had he been unconscious, and what of Long Tam? The woman had been alive, he was sure of it, but that didn't mean she lived now. If the monster was Grottle, then he … it ... likely brought her and the mask to Kamanth Kul, but why take her at all?

And what was he going to do?

Without the mask, Dar would kill him; that was certain.

Sly Tor's men in the Shadow Guild would love to kill him.

If the sorcerer and his pet monstrosity found him, they would kill him, too.

It had been a long time since he had been this unpopular.

What he needed to do, he knew, was to flee the city, take his chances as a stowaway. To remain even another day would almost certainly be his death. Long Tam was not his concern.

The tunnel began to slope up and soon came to a wooden barrier barring further progress—a hatch. Bright daylight bled through the edges of the hatch, and he groped about until his fingers touched a metal bolt holding the hatch closed. Placing an ear against the wood, he listened for several minutes, hearing the muted sounds of men laughing and conversing, reminding him of work parties. He drew the bolt back and pushed the hatch partially open to the sudden stench of garbage and urine. The hatch came out under a wooden scaffolding, around which grew thick desert scrubs. Sly Tor's tunnel came out in an alley, which made perfect sense for a hidden passage. Bors looked both ways but saw only a wild cat. He crawled out, and the cat hissed at him before bolting.

He moved down the alley, carefully approaching the street. Peering around the corner, he saw the tannery he and Long Tam had climbed the night before, as well as Sly Tor's warehouse. Armed toughs moved about its entrance, glaring at anyone who came too close, acting like angry hornets whose nest had been kicked.

The sounds of men at work came from the tannery, where, only a dozen paces away, a group of men unloaded barrels from a wagon. The men formed a line at the bed of the wagon, where each man would take his barrel, set it upon his shoulder, and then carry it inside the tannery. Sly Tor's men paid them no attention, clearly long accustomed to the activity.

He inhaled, put what he hoped was a bored expression on his face, and then strolled out into the street, heading for the wagon, expecting to hear angry shouts. No one challenged him, and he joined the others in line. When his turn came, he hoisted the sloshing barrel upon his shoulder, turned about so that the barrel obscured his face from Sly Tor's men, and entered the tannery. Once inside, he set the barrel down beside others and then slipped away, finding a back way out of the tannery. Again, no one challenged him.

Was his foul luck finally changing?

Minutes later, he was out on the street, heading out of the Narrows. A passerby stared at his arm, reminding Bors of the burnished silver armband he wore—an invitation to murder in such a place. He had been lucky Sly Tor's men hadn't seen it. He slipped the band off, holding it out of sight. Such a valuable could get him killed, but it would also barter for passage on any ship sailing from Port Talos, even for a man the Red Guard sought.

His luck had turned.

This city had never been his home. He owed no one anything.

So why was he so angry?

He stopped in the middle of the street, staring at the silver armband in his hand, remembering a young girl with fiery hair and freckles. Once, she had looked upon him as a hero. How would she look upon him today? And could he really just walk away and leave Long Tam to that demon?

"She's probably dead already, you damned stupid fool."

Several passersby stared at him as they walked around him, likely thinking him crazy.

They weren't wrong.

"You're just a man. You can't fight the supernatural. No one can. You wouldn't last…" He turned and stared behind him at Sly Tor's warehouse, its roof still visible over the other buildings. "Five heartbeats," he whispered.

He slipped the armband back in place over his bicep and eased his axe from his belt. "Well," he mused, "the hornets won't be expecting this."

16

Locating the sorcerer's home had been simple: the location of the Kul estate in the wealthy northern part of the city was no secret—avoiding the numerous Red Guard patrols in the district, though, had been an entirely different matter and had taken Bors hours to sneak his way here. Now, just before sunset, he found himself spying upon the entrance to the sorcerer's estate.

Brightly colored tiles forming a pattern of stars and moons decorated the high arched gate in the sandstone wall. Rising over the wall, ominous and menacing, was a single dark tower at least six stories high. He stared at that tower, feeling his unease grow. If Long Tam still lives, she'll be in there … with the sorcerer and his demon.

Two sentries stood before the gateway. The men, wearing the bored expression of those hired to stand about all day, leaned on polearms, a weapon sporting both a bladed spearhead and an axe.

Bors glanced at the setting sun. He could remain here until dark and then try to scale the wall, but he was no nimble wall-climbing thief. His skills lay in another direction. Besides, the longer he remained, the greater the chance someone would see him and bring the guard. There were times when careful planning and preparation were called for, and times when simplest served best.

He slipped his axe through his belt and stepped away from the corner, walking quickly but not alarmingly so toward the guards, his palms held outward in a non-menacing manner. They saw him immediately and glanced at one another in puzzlement. When Bors was within five paces, one of the men stepped forward, his polearm pointed too high above Bors's face. Bors frowned at him. Weapons should be held properly or not at all.

"What do you want?" the guard asked.

Bors smiled. "Hammer."

The guard's eyes narrowed. "What?"

Bors snapped out a kick between the man's legs, tapping his testicles just hard enough to get the result he wanted, knowing all too well that power was far less important than speed and accuracy. The man dropped, his mouth open, his polearm slipping from his fingers. Bors caught the weapon, slid forward, and assumed a ready stance, the polearm's point directly toward the second man, his weight evenly distributed on both feet.

The other guard hesitated and then made a half-hearted thrust with his polearm that likely would have missed all on its own. Combat was rarely about who was faster or stronger—although those traits did matter; more often than not, fighting was about overcoming the natural reluctance to hurt another human being. Most men needed to work themselves up to violence, shoving and making threats first. This was why drill and discipline were so important among soldiers. Drill overcame that reluctance.

Bors caught the man's clumsy thrust, pushing it to the side and breaking the man's balance. He then dropped his weight at the same time that he brought the flat axe head back against the man's skull. The guard dropped, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Bors noted with relief the man still breathed.

He had killed enough men this night going back to Sly Tor's office.

He knelt beside the one he had kicked, now curled up into a ball and gasping for air. "When you can, take your friend and get away from here. Bring the Red Guard if you must, but you may need to find another job."

The man wheezed, and Bors rose, still holding the polearm as he entered the estate. As he walked, he reached into a pouch on his belt and drew forth a small object, relieved to find it still intact.

* * *

Long Tam's voice was raw and sore from screaming into the gag, but Kul hadn't paid her the slightest attention. He knelt cross-legged nearby, wearing only a loincloth and chanting incessantly. Against his scrawny chest, he held both the black glass dagger and the mask taken from Sly Tor's office. She recognized magic in the air, but it was a different magic from that taught by her Seer mother. This magic was dark and foul, bringing with it the presence of death. Overhead, the cracks in the ceiling grew dark as the sun fell. Any moment now, Kul would finish, rise, and kill her. Again, she strained at her bonds; again, it accomplished nothing. What use had been all those hours spent at her mother's side learning tribal magic if she was unable to use it now when she most needed it? The dark gods must be laughing at her. The man-beetle scuttled closer. Would Kul let it consume her corpse?

Lintara's tears, what an end.

The moment she feared came, and Kul ceased his chanting and rose to face her, a manic light in his eyes.

She was out of time.

Kul stood beside her and placed the razor-sharp point of the dagger against her flesh, just above her heart. The point of the dagger pricked her skin, and a trickle of blood ran between her breasts.

"The Mask of Storms," Kul cried out, tensing his arm to drive the blade through her heart.

The door to the chamber crashed open behind her.

17

Bors burst into the chamber, his breathing wild from running up all the stairs. The tower had been deserted, without even a single servant. Now, he confronted an old man in a loincloth, holding both the Mask of Storms and a black dagger over a bound Long Tam. The man-beetle demon that had been Grottle stood between Bors and Long Tam, not six paces away. The man, no doubt the sorcerer Kamanth Kul, turned to stare wide-eyed at Bors. "Kill him!"

The demon scuttled forward, intent on crushing Bors into a bloody smear. Bors dropped onto one knee, aiming the point of the polearm at the charging monster while holding the other end against the floor. The demon, unable to stop, slammed into the spearhead, punching its point through the armored plate on its chest. Bors rolled away as the wooden shaft shattered under the impact. Pushing himself as fast as ever he had, Bors was back on his feet, his axe raised over his head with both hands as he came around the demon. The sorcerer screamed in terror and bolted as Bors threw the axe overhead. It thudded into the table where Long Tam was bound, severing the ropes that held her wrists.

The demon ripped away the iron plate over its chest, taking with it the embedded spearhead and chunks of yellow flesh, ripping furrows from its torso. It shrieked and hurled the plate at Bors, who dropped to his belly as the heavy metal sheet whistled past. Bors rose, drawing his knife, little more than a tool. The blade, small in his hand, glistened. The monster advanced, watery yellow blood coursing down its chest. The flesh beneath the armor looked like the pale underbelly of a fish. It swung a massive pincer at Bors, but he ducked under it, rising and closing with the beast, thrusting his small knife all the way to the hilt in its exposed chest. Unfazed, the demon smashed an arm the size of a log against him, sending Bors flying back through the air to hit a wall so hard he felt his shoulder pop out of the socket. Fire coursed down his back as he staggered to his feet, his right arm hanging limp. The demon brushed the knife from its flesh and came on again. Bors, unarmed and helpless, bared his teeth in challenge, screaming in fury. The demon paused mid-step, its one good eye opening wide in surprise, just before it toppled forward, smashing into a bookshelf and sending parchment flying everywhere.

The demon lay still.

Long Tam had been right—it had taken less than five heartbeats for the Nitebiter poison he had coated his knife with to stop its heart.

* * *

Kamanth Kul stared in disbelief. This was impossible. One moment, he had been about to kill the woman, and the next, this grey-eyed fiend had burst in and killed his servant, an armored magical amalgam with the strength of a dozen men.

Now his life was at risk.

He gazed down at his hands, realizing that he had dropped the Tear of H'althos but still held on to the Mask of Storms. He stared at the mask, his hand trembling. According to his scrolls, the mask gave its wearer godlike powers, more than enough to deal with this interloper. But he hadn't been able to complete the ritual. If he put the mask on while the curse was still intact, it would age him.

He needed to run, to bring the watch. Kul spun about but found himself staring into the angry wine-colored eyes of the woman he had been about to sacrifice—and in her hand she held the Tear of H'althos.

How?

He stumbled back, soiling himself in his terror as he looked about wildly for a way past her. There was nothing. He was trapped in his own tower. "Wait!" Kul pleaded.

The woman advanced.

So be it! He lifted the mask to his face. He might die of old age, but he'd burn these fools to ashes with lightning first. Holding the mask in place, he anticipated the rush of occult power.

Nothing happened.

Then he sensed a trickle of magic coming from the woman, empowering the Tear of H'althos. How—

She pressed forward, wrapping an arm around his neck to hold him in place and whispered, "The Mask of Storms."

White-hot fire burned through his heart as she rammed the Tear of H'althos through it. He staggered back, the mask falling from nerveless fingers to shatter on the floor. His legs collapsed, and he fell beside the broken shards of the mask. Makes … no … sense.

He coughed up a mouthful of dark blood and died.

18

Long Tam helped Bors flee the sorcerer's tower. The Red Guard would be coming soon, she knew, and if they caught them, they'd torture them to death for killing a noble. As they stumbled from the estate, she heard the horns of the watch. But this was her city, and she could disappear into its cracks in moments. She did so now, leading Bors along back streets, remaining hidden until they were far from the estates of the wealthy. She brought him to another safe house, one with a large wooden bathing tub. While the water warmed over a flame in the fireplace, she tended to his wounds.

She sat back, considering the knots she had just tied in his scalp. She helped him remove his shirt and breeches, noting the numerous scars and old arrow punctures all over his body.

"You've done this before," he said, wincing at the pain in his shoulder.

"Such skills are necessary in Port Talos," she said then frowned in distaste when she came too near his armpit. "Lintara's tears, Bors, get into the bath."

He slowly lowered himself into the steaming water, sighing in pleasure. He had a swordsman's arms and powerful legs.

"Drink this," she said, handing him a small cup containing Conarckian plum brandy. He stared at it for a few moments and then sighed before taking it and sipping from it. Then she let him sit for a time, while the hot water softened his muscles for what was to come next. When she judged him ready, she stood next to his right side, took his arm, and gently placed his palm against her hip. She held his elbow and upper arm, meeting his gaze.

He nodded, grimacing. "Do it." He closed his eyes.

She slowly applied pressure, feeling the joint scrape against bone. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he made no sound until the socket suddenly slid back in place. Then he swore worse than the dockhand he pretended to be.

"All done," she said, wrapping his arm in a sling.

She left him to soak while she changed, putting on a cotton robe, coming back with a small razor and trimming scissors she kept on hand for when she had to alter her appearance. His gaze narrowed when he saw the instruments.

"The guards are already looking for a foreigner with long dark hair and a beard. It's time for you to look a little less … wild."

He shrugged, put his head back, and closed his eyes. "Is there more brandy?"

Kneeling beside the tub, she went to work, trimming away his unruly tangled mass of hair, letting the tufts fall onto the floor around the tub. She then took the razor and scraped away much of his facial hair, leaving only a short-trimmed beard. Chewing her lip, she placed her hand atop his wet hair and turned his head, making sure the cut was even over the ears and neck. A soldier's haircut suited this man.

"What will you do?" he asked her.

She rose, came around behind him, and joined him in the tub—robe and all—placing her legs on either side of his powerful back. He stiffened but said nothing.

"With Sly Tor dead, the city's underworld will be in turmoil for a few days, but I'll make do." She reached past him, taking the brandy from his hand and sipping it. "You, on the other hand, grey-eyed foreigner, must leave the city."

She leaned forward, pressing against his back, wrapping her arms around his neck, being careful of his shoulder. "I don’t love you," she whispered. "I’m not entirely sure if I even like you. Nor am I some foolish girl to fall for a hero. But after what I've been through, I need to feel alive again, to feel anything. Do you understand?"

"What is it I should say?"

"Say nothing." She leaned in, kissing the back of his neck.

* * *

Days later, Bors once more followed Long Tam through the city's back alleys and side streets. His shoulder still pained him, but it was much better, and now he could even use the fine new scimitar Long Tam had given him. She had also gifted him with an expensive ring-mail coat, leather half helm, and other clothing and accessories suitable for a mercenary. Apparently, she did very well for herself in the Shadow Guild.

She led him down old sandstone steps into a garbage-strewn corridor that led down to the city's mazelike aqueducts and into barely lit tunnels. Easily finding her way through the aqueducts, she brought him to a narrow gap through which they had to crawl to reach a two-foot-high portcullis that she cranked open by use of a nearby winch.

Outside, the sun had set, but its last crimson rays painted the desert in shades of brilliant red. Long Tam crawled out first, brushing the filth from her clothing. Bors followed, his shoulder still tender. They stood in a narrow gulley, surrounded by wild brush and boulders. He glanced up at the city walls behind him, but they were empty.

"How is it no one watches such a location?"

She smiled at him, an eyebrow arched. "Someone always watches, Bors."

Taking his hand, she led him down the gully and out onto the sandy hills. After months inside the city, the clean desert air was a blessing. They were east of the city, he saw, near where the caravan routes began.

She paused, pointing to a large sand dune before them. "On the other side, you'll find a caravan. Its master is a large smelly brute named Gress. A most remarkable man in that he possesses no redeeming qualities at all—other than a need to pay me back for a favor. He's waiting for you. I'm assuming you can ride a camel?"

Bors shrugged. "If it has legs, I can ride it."

She flashed her teeth at him and then patted his cheek. "Indeed. Gress needs reliable men who know their way around weapons."

"What of you? You can't stay in the city now, not after killing Sly Tor. Come with me."

She approached him and gave him a long kiss then buried her face in his neck. "I've had enough of sand for a dozen lifetimes. I'll be fine. But I do owe you my life. Thank you."

He held her tight. "Live well, Long Tam."

"Live well, Bors of Lyr. Now, be off, warrior," she said, pushing him away.

His boots slipped in the sand as he climbed the dune, sending waves rolling back down the hill. On the other side of the dune, a dozen brightly colored tents waited amidst braying camels and barking dogs. He paused briefly at the top, looking back, but Long Tam was already gone.

He sighed, nodding to himself. "A man endures what must be endured." He dug his heels in as he made his way down the slope.

Epilogue

Later that night, hours after the new guild masters had voted Long Tam in as First Master, she returned to the docks where her fortune had changed so drastically. The night was overcast, a rare occurrence in this part of the world, but the darkness was welcome. Wrapped in its embrace, she was merely one more shadow. She slipped silently onto the seventh pier from the easternmost edge of the harbor wall, pausing once again to make sure no one had followed her.

She'd be a far better First Master than Sly Tor had ever been, especially now that Port Talos was about to enter a golden boon. The Shadow Guild's fortunes would rise with those of the city.

As would Long Tam's.

She counted the pillars on the pier, stopping before the thirteenth, where she silently shed her cloak, weapons, and clothing. Standing nude in the darkness, she once again made sure no one had followed her—just as she had the night she stole the mask, the night she visited one of her contacts, an artisan skilled at creating forgeries. She dropped onto her belly and slid over the edge of the pier, slipping into the warm waters. Holding her breath, she dived under, feeling her way down the barnacle-encrusted pillar. At its base, she pushed aside the stones, her fingers brushing against the cloth-wrapped item she had buried days ago. She pushed for the surface, holding the object against her chest, breaking free of the waves.

She held aloft the Mask of Storms.

The End

Review Request

Enjoy this book? If so, you’d become a hero to me by leaving a review on Amazon. Even a sentence or two makes a huge difference. Indies depend on your reviews to obtain advertising and compete with the big publishers.

Click the link below, and help out. It’s that easy.

Thanks.

The Mask of Storms (Book 1 of the Blood and Honor series)

William Stacey Reader Newsletter

Free William Stacey Starter Library

Two free full-length novels and three exclusive short stories.

Click on the image above or hit subscribe below. You’ll always be notified in advance of my most recent novels as well as the occasional deal.

www.williamstaceyauthor.com

SUBSCRIBE NOW

FREE

- A copy of the full-length urban fantasy military sci-fi thriller, STARLIGHT.

- A copy of the full-length Viking dark fantasy novel BLACK MONASTERY, a 2014 Amazon Breakthrough Award Quarterfinalist.

- A copy of FAIRY TALE, a thrilling urban fantasy short story about a little girl, a wounded fairy and a bloodthirsty monster.

- A copy of EARNING VALHALLA, an exciting military science fiction short story about the bond between warriors.

- A copy of A PROMISE OF FIRE, a chilling dark fantasy short story about the price of revenge.

SUBSCRIBE NOW

About the Author

A former intelligence officer and soldier who served in the Canadian army for more than thirty years, William Stacey is a combat nerd who lives to tell stories. He is a black belt in karate and possesses a somewhat disturbing and unhealthy fascination for all things medieval and violent—especially Vikings. With operational tours in Bosnia and Afghanistan, he combines his military experience with his love for martial arts and sharp objects. He is a husband, father, and fitness nut, whose best friend is a German Shepherd named (naturally) Thor.

www.williamstaceyauthor.com

william@williamstaceyauthor.com

Facebook

Twitter

Also by William Stacey

Black Monastery

An outlaw Viking clashes with a demon that flays and wears the skins of its victims…

Starlight (Book 1 - The Dark Elf War)

A secret power. The revival of magic. An ancient evil stirs. The battle between magic and technology begins when humanity’s ancient foe—the dark elves—return.

Blood Fiends’ Bane (Book 1 - The Vampire Queen Saga)

Dead, buried, forgotten — but very, very angry. Serina Greywynne, the Vampire Queen of nightmares, has been awoken.

The Shield of Serl Raven-Eye (Book 2 - The Vampire Queen Saga)

The race for the shield begins. Can Owen and Danika trust that fiery pirate chieftain Fioni will deliver them to an ancient heirloom that is the key to Serina’s destruction?

The Mouth of the Gods (Book 3 - The Vampire Queen Saga)

Beware the island lost to time, where even vampires are prey. The final battle against Serina has begun.

The Vampire Queen Saga Books 1-3 (Boxset)

A long-lost magic sword, a reluctant hero and the lady he has sworn to protect, and the Vampire Queen of legend. All shall collide. The complete trilogy

COMING SOON

Gunz (Book 2 - The Dark Elf War)