Three riders traveled the ancient stone road linking Antocona to Megidan. Constructed when Meizak was united, it had decayed through centuries of disrepair, a decay that had paralleled Meizak’s gradual collapse into warring regions.

Normally used by expansive caravans, wandering pilgrims, and eager traders, it now overflowed with fleeing families hauling wagons stacked with personal belongings or carrying earthly possessions on crooked backs.

“I don’t like this,” Dalacroy said. The mercenary was solidly built under his cloth tunic and leather jerkin. Slate blue eyes peered intently from a square, youthful face. A mop of brown hair swept across his furrowed brow. He pushed it back with a gloved hand.

“An assessment of understatement,” Lyman replied. The scholar shifted his heavy body, stubby fingers clearing a twisted section of robe wedged between saddle and saddle bag.

Moirya remained silent, auburn hair blowing about her shoulders, green eyes sweeping the scene before them. She nudged her mount into the path of a family of peasants.

A tired, dust-caked man stopped, placing himself before his wife and four children. He adjusted a heavy pack on his shoulders and waited, sullen eyes averted.

“You, what happened?”

Dalacroy raised an eyebrow. Moirya’s voice held an imperious edge that surprised him.

The peasant shifted uneasily and glanced at the refugees streaming past. They gave the party wide berth. “Leave us be. They’ll kill my family.”

Dalacroy dropped his hand to his sword hilt and growled, “Answer her. What happened?”

The peasant worked his toil-blackened fingers. “Qialtl has fallen.”

Moirya gasped. “What?”

“To Lord Nezu. Yesterday.” He began to edge around the mounted party. “Please, let us go.”

Moirya looked in the direction of the city. Her voice cracked. “My parents!”

Dalacroy grabbed the bridle of her mount as she put heel to flank. The horse reared, confused by the conflicting commands. He held on until the beast settled.

She swung on him furiously. “How dare you!”

“Your parents may be dead. Riding blindly to Qialtl won’t serve you any better.”

Lyman, his bulk overflowing the saddle of his brown mare, said, “He’s right, girl. We should proceed with caution.”

Dalacroy said, “We? Lyman, this will be no place for you.”

The scholar adjusted the wide-brimmed hat sitting askew across his balding head. “Nor you, if I may be so bold. My path is my own, my dear mercenary. I have... business interests in Qialtl.”

Dalacroy sighed. He released the bridle and grabbed Moirya by her bronze-tanned arm. “We go, but we do it smart.” He glanced at the peasant and jerked his head. The man mumbled thanks and ushered his family past, disappearing quickly among the throng of refugees.

Moirya glared. “Very well.”

He nodded and led the party off the road. “What can either of you tell me about this Lord Nezu?”

Lyman stroked his chin. “He rules Smelerne and the surrounding lands north of here. It’s no secret he covets Qialtl and Lord Sugino’s holdings.”

“Because of this trade route?”

Moirya nodded. “Qialtl is a major commerce center. It’s a junction for caravans traveling north into Ilagos.” She looked at Lyman. “You’re from Ilagos, aren’t you? Does that explain your business interests?”

The scholar inclined his head. “Qialtl has a reputation as a place of learning. That’s what originally brought me south.” To Dalacroy: “The northern route passes Smelerne, and Lord Nezu exacts a heavy toll. He’s not a man to trifle with. He executes by impalement.”

“Lyman!” Dalacroy warned.

The scholar mumbled an apology.

“If we’re to continue, we’ll need a plan. Lyman, you said you have contacts in Qialtl?”

“If they live.”

“We’ll assume they do. I imagine Lord Nezu wants to possess Qialtl, not destroy it. He’ll want to fill his coffers with fresh toll money.”

Lyman pursed his thick lips. “Makes sense. And for that he’ll need the merchant guild. I suspect some families will side with him out of greed, or for a chance to avenge past grievances. There will be blood, for sure. The people I deal with should be trustworthy, though. Sadly, I expect little chance for the nobles.”

Moirya looked away.

Dalacroy moved his horse beside her and placed a hand on her arm. “This is what we’ll do. Lyman, you’ll be returning to Ilagos. I’ll be your escort. Moirya...”

“...will be the slave.”

“I’m sorry. With that tattoo I can’t think of...”

“It’s fine, if it gets me to my parents.”

“I’ll need your sword.”

Reluctantly, she handed it over.

Dalacroy nodded at Lyman, “Lead the way.”

They resumed west, against the tide of refugees.

They passed several villages before spotting a cloud of smoke drifting slowly across the horizon.

Lyman shaded his eyes. “Must be Qialtl. The smoke’s white. At least Nezu’s seen to the fires.”

Moirya, silent and withdrawn since they set out, whispered, “Qialtl burns? May the Ancient Ones curse him.”

Dalacroy placed a hand on his pommel. “Soldiers approach. Remember; we travel to Ilagos. Say nothing to provoke them.” He stared hard at Moirya. Her eyes dropped in acknowledgement.

Six riders drew near, iron hooves striking sharply on the granite road. They wore boiled leather armor and peaked helms with horsehair crests. Wooden bucklers and broad scimitars lay within easy reach.

The leader circled his arm and the party was surrounded. The commander slowly rode up, his deep-set, obsidian-colored eyes quickly passing over Lyman and Moirya to assess Dalacroy. He stroked a long, black moustache. “What’s your business?”

Lyman coughed, doffed his floppy hat, and bowed as low as his thick belly would allow. “I am a scholar out of Tiro, in Ilagos, dear commander. We ride from Antocona and journey home.”

The Smelerne kept his eyes fixed on Dalacroy. “Qialtl belongs to Lord Nezu. We hunt nobles and traitors.”

Moirya snapped, “Nobles and traitors? I’ve seen nothing but peasants and farmers fleeing Smelerne butchers!”

The commander pointed at the girl. Two men advanced.

Dalacroy produced his knife, held the edge to Moirya’s throat. “Quiet, girl.” He glared at the horsemen. “Stay. Her discipline is for my master to decide.”

They hesitated, looked to their commander.

Lyman’s voice was tense. “Indeed, dear commander. She is recently purchased from Antocona and has yet to fully understand her place. My guard will see she does.” A pudgy hand disappeared within the folds of his voluminous robe. He produced a silver chalice and handed it over, his hand brushing the commander’s mailed glove. Lyman’s eyes went vacant. He quickly refocused. “Accept this as a token of apology. Be assured, the slave will be punished.”

The commander took the gift and gave it a cursory glance. His eyes shifted to Dalacroy’s knife and the easy way the northerner held it. He signaled his men to clear a path. “If I were you, I’d cut out her tongue. Go.”

Dalacroy sheathed the blade. “The thought’s crossed my mind.”

Lyman said, “We’ll be on our way.” He put heel to mount and the beast ambled off. Dalacroy and Moirya followed.

Several hundred paces along Dalacroy stopped and swung in his saddle to examine the road. “No one follows.”

Lyman’s chuckle was forced. “Small wonder. For all his bluster, the Smelerne commander feared you.”

Dalacroy pushed back his hair. “He did? That gift of yours again? You gained that insight by touching his glove?”

The scholar nodded.

Moirya blurted, “Was the knife necessary?”

Lyman adjusted his hat. “It was, my dear. Your outburst nearly cost us our lives. Mine, anyway. I’m no fighter.”

She bit off a retort and lapsed into silence.

By dusk Qialtl lay in sight, wisps of smoke swirling languidly from within the city walls. The fortifications were battered, in places mere rubble. The main gate lay open; its wooden, iron-reinforced doors smashed and splintered.

Bodies lay strewn along the base of the walls. Wild dogs worried at their rotting flesh as carrion birds squawked nearby. Peasants dug massive burial pits and collected corpses, tossing them onto blood-soaked carts.

When they saw the first stake and the body impaled upon it, Dalacroy and Lyman looked at Moirya. She eyed it warily. There were more ahead. The mercenary moved beside her.

Several paces on Lyman slowed and looked up. He said, “I know those two. They were guild. It appears the merchants are settling scores already.”

They reached the intersection where the trade road diverted into Qialtl.

Moirya suddenly halted and cried out. She dropped from her horse and rushed to a stake, collapsing at its base and wrapping her arms around the blood-slicked surface.

Dalacroy and Lyman exchanged looks.

Impaled on the roughly cut post was a middle-aged man, his naked body contorted in death, head pushed to one side by a sharpened stake extruding from his shoulder. On the next pole was a woman.

Moirya moaned. “Father, mother...”

Moments later they were surrounded by soldiers.

Dalacroy stood weaponless in a small room. Light poured through a narrow, rectangular window. Dust motes hovered in its path.

A large-boned muscular soldier leaned on his elbows behind a simple table, his one good eye taking the measure of the mercenary. Beside him was a smaller man, a quill clasped in his bony hand. A third stood guard at the lone exit.

The muscular man asked in a gravely voice, “We questioned the Ilagon. What’s your story?”

Dalacroy flexed his hands and glanced at the guard, sizing up his chances. They were slim. “I’m a mercenary. I was hired in Antocona to provide escort.”

The small man scribbled quickly on a piece of parchment and passed it over.

The soldier read it, leaned back and cracked his knuckles. “Your stories agree. Lucky for you. We impale spies. Lord Nezu is busy with rebels, and wishes no ill will toward the citizens of Ilagos. Or their guards. Go.” He held up a finger. “A word of advice. Leave Qialtl at first light.”

“My weapons?”

“They‘ll be returned.”

The guard opened the door and stepped aside.

Dalacroy found Lyman sitting on a stone bench in the anteroom of Qialtl’s dungeon. Beside the scholar lay his gear.

Lyman’s fleshy features brightened at the mercenary’s entrance. “My dear Dalacroy, it pleases me to see you in good health.” He lowered his voice. “Most unfortunate for the girl.”

Dalacroy paused reaching for his leather jerkin. “What?”

Lyman raised his bushy eyebrows. “You don’t know? They think she belongs to the House of Shayan. They say that House is a threat to Lord Nezu’s rule. She was taken away.”

Dalacroy grabbed his jerkin. “I won’t leave her.”

“I knew you’d say that. What can I do?”

“I’m not sure. What can you do?”

Lyman paused as a jailer entered the room. “We can leave, for a start.” He lowered his voice. “I was told we’re to quit the city, but I know a place where we can hide, if it still stands.”

Moirya awoke in pain, arms curled tightly about her knees. She opened one eye; the other refused. She moved an arm to touch it and groaned as the motion brought fire to her back. Memories cascaded like water from a broken dam, the seemingly endless questioning by her captors. Gritting her teeth, she slowly uncurled, felt blood trickle as the clotted skin on her back split. She groaned again.

Two women were quickly at her side. Both were middle-aged, their dresses mired with sweat and filth. One gently examined Moirya’s back while the other ran a hand across her forehead and whispered, “Careful of your back, my lady.”

The other hissed, “Bastards.”

The woman stroking Moirya’s forehead smiled gently. “I am Elis. That is Artyenia.”

“Water?” A moment later a bowl was pressed to her mouth. Moirya found the liquid soothing to her parched lips and raw throat. It was quickly withdrawn.

Elis was apologetic. “That’s all we can spare.”

Moirya flinched as Artyenia dabbed at her damaged skin. She was helped to a kneeling position and a cloth was bound tightly around her torso, another around her waist. She mumbled, “Thank you.”

Elis patted her hand. “Tch now. You’ve endured much, my lady. We would do more, if we could.”

“You know me?”

“Your parents were friends.”

“You are guild?”

Elis nodded. “Not all of us sided with Lord Nezu. When he took the city, certain families used the chaos to curry favor and settle old feuds. The less fortunate he made examples of. Others, like Artyenia and me, were jailed as a warning.” She looked at the slaver’s tattoo on Moirya’s ankle. “What happened to you?”

Moirya shuddered. “I was kidnapped and sold into slavery. A man freed me — a northerner. Have you seen him? Is he here?”

Artyenia shook her head. “You’re the last person they brought in. Why were they so rough on you, child?”

Moirya’s eyes darkened as she pictured the leering face of Lord Nezu sitting lazily in a high-backed chair, drinking wine as he watched her interrogation. “They said I knew the whereabouts of certain nobles. I don’t, but they didn’t believe me.” She shivered again. “I’ll have his heart!”

A man chuckled, dry and humorless. “You’ll have to escape, first.” He spoke high Meizakan, with a northern accent.

Moirya turned slowly, saw a bearded man seated against the bars, his youthful face swollen and discolored. “Who are you?”

“Inaba.” He leaned forward. “My family has ties to the guilds. Like you, I was jailed as a warning to my parents.” His eyes narrowed as he studied Moirya. “I’d say we share the same thirst for vengeance.”

Elis glared. “I don’t know you.”

The man shrugged. “And I don’t know you. It shouldn’t make us enemies.”

Dalacroy sat with Lyman and three merchants in a second-story apartment deep within the Guild Quarter. He peered out a small window at the nearly deserted streets below. The approaching tread of heavy footsteps signaled a Smelerne patrol. It passed and rounded a corner. He turned to the merchants, fingers rapping the wooden table in frustration.

Lyman finished a quiet conversation and faced him. “Good news. Nezu is releasing prisoners not attached to a noble house. He’s declared an end to all feuds and wants the guilds to return to business.”

Dalacroy frowned. “So the back-stabbing has stopped? How’s that help me?”

“It’s an opportunity to free Moirya. Prisoners require a representative to plead their case before a bailiff.”

Dalacroy’s frown deepened. “You expect me to beg for her freedom?”

One of the merchants interrupted. “I freed my wife Elis this morning. She spoke with the Lady Moirya.”

Dalacroy leaned forward, fingers working the chair arms. “She is well?”

The man hesitated. “She suffered... injuries, sir. My wife tended her.”

Dalacroy’s fist slammed the table. He took a deep breath. “Can she travel?”

“Elis believes so.”

The mercenary swung on Lyman. “What do we do?”

“A diversion, my dear Coranthan. The jailer’s office overflows with petitioners.” He waved his hand at the merchants. “We’ve agreed to distract the bailiff and his assistants. That should allow you a chance to slip past.”

“And after I free her, what then? Walk out?”

“Not quite.” Lyman grabbed a parchment and unrolled it, used four tankards to secure each corner. It was a map. “This is a plan of the dungeon where Moirya is held. At the far end of the corridor is a grate. Below the grate is a connecting tunnel. The drop between the two is a tall man’s height.”

Dalacroy sat back. “Let me guess. It’s for waste, and it’s the only way out, save the front door.”

“I’m afraid so. It leads to the river. There’s a grate there, too, but it should be unguarded. I’ll have men remove it and wait for you. You’ll be taken to a safe place.”

Dalacroy pondered the layout for several moments. He sighed and went to gather his equipment. “Let’s go, then.”

“A moment.” Lyman led the mercenary away from the merchants. “There’s something else you should know. It’s about your knife.”

The mercenary raised an eyebrow. “You two been talking again?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. You remember its limitations?”

“Limitations? You mean how it’ll always strike a mortal target but not one of sorcery?”

“Yes.”

“Enlighten me.”

Lyman reached and touched the blade — the heirloom passed to Dalacroy from his father. “It may work for the girl.”

Dalacroy’s forehead creased with surprise. “Are you telling me it’s in love?”

Lyman chuckled. “No, no. But it has sensed your attraction to her, and her to you.”

“What? We’re not... I’m not...”

The scholar laughed. “Of course not.”

The press of people inside the jailer’s office was stifling. Men and women converged on three dour-faced bailiffs seated behind a long table stacked with scrolls and ledgers. Two guards kept vigil near a door behind them, cudgels at hand.

Dalacroy stood to the side dressed in colorful baggy clothes favored by the Guilds. The idea was Lyman’s; the loose fit serving to conceal armor and knife.

The wait was long and tedious. It was dusk when Lyman stood next. A bailiff waved the scholar forward. He advanced, but a merchant slipped in front. Lyman, justifiably indignant, pushed. The merchant pushed back. A third man, jostled by the exchange, pushed both. The crowd promptly erupted into a shoving match. The bailiffs called for order, and then sharply commanded the guards to intervene.

Dalacroy leaned against the wall near the dungeon entrance. As the guards stepped away he slipped past and entered an alcove. Remaining in the shadows, he searched for additional sentries, but saw none. At its rear was a stone staircase. He started down, the irregularly spaced torches flickering with his urgent passage. Behind him the uproar faded.

He stopped before the landing when he heard laughter around the corner. Edging carefully, he spied two guards tossing dice at a table. Beyond them was the cell corridor entrance.

Dalacroy took a calming breath and, knife in hand, swept around, charging hard. The soldier facing him stopped mid-toss. Dalacroy reversed his blade and threw, the hilt striking the guard squarely in the throat. The second man reacted instinctively, lunging for a club. Dalacroy seized a handful of tunic and swung him about, landing a solid punch to the jaw. The guard dropped.

He knelt beside the choking man who rolled on the floor clutching his throat. Retrieving the knife, Dalacroy placed its point near a watering eye. “Keys?”

Unable to speak, the guard pointed to a spot on the wall.

Dalacroy followed; saw a massive ring with three keys. He rolled his eyes and mumbled, “Right in front of me.” Reversing the weapon, he struck the guard unconscious. He retrieved the ring and went to the gate, unlocking it on the first try--the gate squealing when pushed open--and stepped into a long corridor of cells.

Men and women rushed on either side, arms thrusting through the thick bars, fingers clenching as they pleaded for release. He took a deep breath. This would take time.

He checked the first cell, surprised at the number of people crammed in it. He didn’t see Moirya. He went to the next cell. Still nothing.

At the third cell he called out. “Moirya!” It went unanswered. He looked back at the guard’s room for motion, saw none. At the fifth cell he called again.

A strong female voice responded. “You seek Moirya Shayan?”

Dalacroy felt his heart beat faster. He searched; saw a middle-aged woman watching him. He shouted, “Where is she?”

“In here!”

Dalacroy ran to the cell and peered through the bars. Like the others, the cell was full. He asked, “You’re Artyenia?”

She nodded. “You come from Elis?”

“Her husband. Where’s Moirya?”

“Dalacroy?”

“Here!”

Moirya pushed through the crowd and limped toward him. She grabbed a bar with one hand and clasped his hand with the other. “I knew you’d come.”

His eyes swept her crudely bandaged body. His face turned murderously dark. “Can you walk?”

Artyenia placed a hand on Moirya’s shoulder. “We treated her as best we could. She’ll be fine.”

The mercenary nodded and stepped back. He looked to the far end of the corridor and caught a glint of metal: the grate. He pointed at it. “We leave through that. Is she tightly bound?”

The woman looked dubious. “That’s for waste. She risks infection.”

“People wait for us with a healer.” He looked toward the unconscious jailers. “We have no choice.”

Artyenia checked the bandages. “They’ll hold.”

“Good. Let me unlock the cell before the guards wake.”

“You didn’t kill them?”

“No. That would make it worse for everyone here.” He inserted a key and shouted, “Step back!”

The prisoners protested, many refused, sensing freedom slipping away. Dalacroy reached for his knife, but Artyenia shook her head. She placed herself between the cell door and the captives. Suddenly Inaba broke from the crowd and joined her. Together they allowed Moirya to squeeze between them and the cell door.

Dalacroy turned the key and cracked it open. Moirya slipped out. He pushed, but felt resistance. Inaba blocked it with his foot.

Dalacroy growled, “What are you doing?”

“You’ll need help.”

The mercenary eyed him. “Who’s this, Moirya?”

“His name’s Inaba. That’s all I know.”

Inaba touched the bruises on his face and repeated, “You’ll need help.”

“Why should I trust you?”

The man shrugged. “How do I know you can escape?”

“We may need him, Dalacroy. We must get out. Nezu must die so we can reclaim Qialtl.”

“Kill Nezu? That’s the least of our worries.”

Artyenia interrupted. “You must hurry.”

Dalacroy nodded at Artyenia. “Be safe.” He produced his knife and held it close to Inaba’s throat. “Back inside.”

Moirya cried, “Dalacroy! He can help us!”

The mercenary studied Moirya’s bruised face, noted her grim determination. He looked at the grate; decided an extra pair of hands could be useful. “Come on.” He let Inaba pass and locked the cell. “I’ll be watching.” He flashed his knife for emphasis.

The young man bristled. “Yes, yes. What now?”

“This way.” Dalacroy placed an arm around Moirya’s waist and led her to the end of the corridor and the grill nestled against the dank wall. He knelt and tested the slippery bars. The metal shifted with effort. The smell of sewage was strong.

“This is our escape route?” Moirya’s voice was incredulous.

Dalacroy shrugged. “Blame Lyman.” He gripped the metal with both hands, tensed, and pulled. The grate squealed in protest, shifting slightly. Inaba joined, and together they slid it clear. Dalacroy peered into the black hole, and then eyed Inaba. “You first. It’s a shallow drop, and slopes to the...”

Moirya nudged him. “Explain it later.”

“Right.”

Inaba swung his body over the opening and dropped. They heard a splash. His voice echoed. “It’s not bad, only knee deep. Send the girl.”

The mercenary helped Moirya down the opening, holding her by the wrists.

Inaba said, “I got her.”

Dalacroy peered into the blackness. “That scholar better have a change of clothes waiting.”

Dalacroy, Moirya and Inaba appeared at the sewer exit to find several men waiting. They were given cloth to clean the sludge from their legs and a fresh change of clothes. When ready, they were led to a remote villa.

Inaba was at first treated with suspicion, but his easy charm and sincerity set everyone at ease, and though Lyman tried, he sensed nothing dishonest about the man.

A week later Dalacroy found Moirya in the courtyard tossing knives into a wooden target. He watched quietly, leaning against a doorway as she grimly hammered home blade after blade. He approached when she paused to retrieve them. “You’re not following through on your release.”

She pushed away a damp lock of auburn hair. “My back’s still tight.”

“And your eye?”

There was a trace of discoloring along the underside. Slender fingers brushed it. “Fine.” She smiled, shyly. “At least they didn’t break my nose.” They strolled slowly from the target.

“Elis said your back heals well.”

The smile vanished. She flipped a blade in her hand. “Small comfort.” She turned and drew back to throw.

Dalacroy gently took her wrist and removed the knife. He replaced it with his own. “Try mine. Better balance.”

She twisted lightly in his grasp to face him. Her free hand stroked his. Her green eyes moistened. “Thank you for saving me.”

He studied her for several moments, let go and stepped back. “No thanks necessary. Remember to follow through.”

Frowning, she faced the target, drew back her arm and released. Thunk! The blade struck dead center. She said excitedly, “What a difference!” Retrieving it, she chose another distance and tried again. Center. Further away, same result. Another two throws and she joined him. “Amazing. Can I use it?”

“Look, I don’t...”

She reached up and kissed his cheek. Surprised, he carefully slipped his arms low around her waist. She settled into the embrace. Their lips joined. Tentative at first, the kiss became passionate. They separated, faces flushed.

Smiling, she ran a finger under his chin. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” She broke the embrace to retrieve the knife.

Dalacroy watched, recalling the conversation with Lyman and his comment about the blade. He’d said it sensed a mutual bond between the girl and him. It was a bond he knowingly fought. But now he sensed the fight was lost, and his stomach knotted. When the weapon struck again, Dalacroy said, “I’ll kill Nezu. It’s butcher’s work. Not for you.”

Her face flushed with anger. “How dare you! Of all people...” She glared. “That bastard murdered my parents!” She swiftly untied the top of her tunic, turned to reveal a back criss-crossed with angry welts. “He laughed as his men did this, you know. Should I tell you more?” She retied the tunic and thrust her chin out defiantly. “He’s mine, Dalacroy, and not you, or anyone, will stop me!”

Stunned at the passion of her outburst, he snapped, “Damn you girl, this isn’t child’s play. He’ll carve you.”

She placed her hands on her hips and matched his anger. “Lyman told me where Nezu conducts his business, and I know a way in. You can remain here. Inaba will help!”

They glared at each other until Dalacroy calmed. He asked, “Secret way in?”

She relaxed. “I grew up here, remember? Children like to explore, and children find things. Child’s play, you know.”

“And Inaba?”

“He offered to help. He wishes to see Nezu dead, too.”

“We know little about him.”

“Lyman sensed nothing wrong. He offered, and I won’t turn him down. I’ll take my chances.”

Nodding slowly, he motioned for the knife. “Then stay close.”

Lord Nezu glanced over the scroll before him. It was yet another plea to release someone’s mother. A necessary evil to maintain peace among the merchants. He reached for a goblet of wine and drained the contents. A servant hurried over with decanter in hand as the cup touched the table.

Two scribes sat opposite; eyes fixed on his stern face, quills poised for the next order of business. A pair of guards, both standing over six feet in height, stood to either side of the single entry to the study.

Nezu dropped the scroll and asked, “Any word on Inaba, or that Shayan whore?”

The scribes exchanged looks. The younger one cleared his throat. “Our spies still report nothing, my Lord.”

Nezu rapped his knuckles on the cedar table. “I don’t like this. Perhaps I should raise the reward for their capture.” He looked up when the scribes didn’t respond. Their eyes stared past him.

“I can understand why you’d fear me, Nezu, but not the girl.” Inaba stepped from behind a thick curtain, crossbow cocked and ready.

Dalacroy followed, sword drawn. He eyed Inaba with surprise. Moirya appeared last, clutching another crossbow.

“You!” Nezu sprung forward and unsheathed a scimitar propped on a nearby chair. Spinning about, he snarled, “Inaba, you coward! You’d kill me from a distance?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, but she will.” The Smelerne advanced a step, raised the crossbow, and fired. The bolt slammed into one of the guards, driving the man against the wall. He slid, leaving a thin smear of blood along the stone. The other drew his scimitar as the scribes raced past and out the door, crying for help.

Moirya fired, but Nezu ducked. The bolt grazed his shoulder, splintering against the wall.

Inaba cautioned, “We have little time.”

Dalacroy put aside his surprise. “Tell me about it.” He charged the remaining guard, kicking a chair into the soldier’s knees. The man grimaced and stumbled. Dalacroy closed the gap, knocked aside a feeble cut and thrust his blade hard into the chainmail. The force drove the rings and cloth undergarment deep into the belly beneath. Dalacroy braced his foot against the corpse and wrenched the weapon free. He turned to face Nezu as the body hit the ground in a jangle of metal.

The Lord of Smelerne was engaged in a furious contest with Inaba, while Moirya moved carefully out of reach, sword clenched in her right hand. She saw an opening and thrust, only to have it parried and receiving a cut along her forearm. She back-stepped and shrieked in frustration.

Dalacroy seized a heavy chair and braced the door. He shouted. “Want help?”

Nezu parried a slice from Inaba and scowled. “It takes three of you to kill me?”

Ignoring the blood streaming from her wound, Moirya sheathed the sword and drew a knife. She threw it, but Nezu stepped back and deflected the thin blade effortlessly with his scimitar.

He laughed. “Sneaky whore. When my men arrive you and I will get reacquainted. Then you’ll join your parents on a stake. But first, this bastard dies!” He launched a flurry of blows at Inaba, who slowly gave ground.

Heavy footsteps sounded along the corridor, accompanied by anxious shouts and frantic orders.

Dalacroy slapped a hand to his waist and produced his knife. He aimed, but hesitated when Moirya drew her sword and crouched to attack. She wouldn’t have a chance. He shouted, “Moirya!” She turned, and he tossed the blade underhanded.

Deftly catching the ensorcelled weapon, Moirya spun and threw.

Nezu saw it and tried to parry, but the knife streaked past, slicing into his chest. He staggered, grabbing at the hilt, blood welling through open fingers.

Leaping past a surprised Inaba, Moirya rammed Nezu hard into the wall. She growled, “That’s for my mother.” Pulling hard, she withdrew the blade and plunged it into his belly, savagely twisting the handle. “That’s for my father.”

The scimitar dropped from Nezu’s hands to clatter on the stone floor. Eyes wide, lifeblood draining, he clawed at the hilt.

Moirya knocked aside his hands and pulled the blade free, holding it tauntingly beyond reach. Eyes hardening, she rammed the point hilt-deep into Nezu’s throat. Blood sprayed her face. Nezu gurgled and slipped down the wall to slump at its base.

“That was for me.”

The door thundered from outside, voices shouting urgently. Another loud thud and it surged inward, the chair cracking.

Dalacroy retreated to stand with Moirya and Inaba as the door shuddered again and the chair exploded.

Several guards pushed through, stumbling to a halt when they spied the crumpled form of their former lord. They saw Inaba, flanked by a large, menacing warrior and a thin, blood-spattered girl clutching a crimson-stained knife.

Inaba barked, “Put up your weapons. Nezu is dead and I take command.” The soldiers paused, uncertain. He stormed to the table and slammed his fist. “Obey me!”

Slowly the men complied and lowered their arms. A moment later the two scribes pushed through, followed by a handful of officers. The officers swiftly assessed the situation and absorbed its implications. Ever pragmatic, they flanked Inaba in a show of support. The scribes sat and gathered parchment and ink.

Inaba pointed to two men and waved at the body. “Remove it.” He snapped his fingers. “Wine.” He sat.

Moirya confronted him. “Who are you?”

Inaba tapped his fingertips, smiled without humor. “Count Inaba, Moirya Shayan.” He glanced at the body. “Nezu’s half-brother.” A servant appeared with a jug of wine. “Thirsty work, this. Drink?”

Moriya snapped, “What’s this about?”

“Indeed. I suppose I owe you an explanation. There was no love lost between Nezu and I. He saw an opportunity to remove me during the chaos of the siege and took it. Tossing me in a cell full of Qialtl’s citizens was an ingenious way of ensuring my silence. One word about who I was would have had me lynched.” Inaba stroked his chin. “Hmm. Perhaps that’s how he intended to kill me. Well, we’ll never know, will we?”

“Why would he want you dead?”

Inaba shrugged. “I’m popular with the men, and hold considerable influence at court. Nezu resented that.”

Dalacroy’s eyes narrowed. “You used us.”

“Sure you won't have a drink?” Inaba waited while his goblet was refreshed. “I saw an opening and took it. I am not ungrateful for your help, unwilling though it was.”

Moirya snapped, “Then leave Qialtl.”

Inaba smiled and spread his hands. “Well, I must return to Smelerne to consolidate my power. But, think on this.” He raised the goblet. “With so many of your nobles dead or fled, it would be prudent we leave a governor and garrison until proper rule is re-established. Qialtl is weak and defenseless. If we departed and another lord used the opportunity to occupy your city, I would be in a poor strategic position. I can’t allow that.”

Dalacroy’s eyes narrowed. “You have no intention of leaving, then. What happens to us?”

“I said earlier I was not without gratitude. You have until morning to depart Qialtl.” He looked at Moirya. “And you are exiled. Set foot on Smelerne land again and I will see you dead. I will, however, give your parents a proper burial. Go.”

The sun was low behind a thin wisp of pink-tinted clouds. Three riders passed a stone monument on the shoulder of the caravan road marking the border of Meizak and Ilagos.

Cresting a knoll, they stopped to ponder the rolling hills of the fractured country they were leaving behind.

Lyman broke the silence. “It’s for the best, dear girl.”

Moirya was sombre. “You trusted him.”

The scholar dropped his head. “I had no reason not to. He had no personal possessions when I tested him. I couldn’t sense his deceit. I’m afraid I failed you.”

Dalacroy snorted. “We’re alive, that’s what matters. I say we ride north to Tiro and rest at your home, Lyman.” He reached over and gave Moirya’s hand an affectionate squeeze. “One day we’ll return and set things right. That I promise.”

Moirya looked at Meizak a final time, and they rode north.

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