Rousse was glad for Markos’ reputation. He could tell in the nobles eyes, in the way they spoke Zairosi, the way they addressed Markos- they seemed under the impression that he had Rousse on a leash. They could not fathom that the mighty Markos Wyrm-Killer would lower himself to the point of serving a foreigner- Rousse was a barbarian pirate, the great Wyrm-Killer would never serve such a man. That was their greatest weakness. They saw everyone from off the coast as a barbaric fool. Rousse was just fine letting them think that. On Rousse’s orders, Markos declared himself regent. The rich of the city were boiling though. Plenty of poor were glad to see the Tyrant King die, but his wife had been beloved of the people, a charitable woman- Rousse had cursed Kyros every day for killing Khloe. He’d learned her name only at her funeral. A grand affair held for her and the Tyrant that drew most of the eyes in the city. Certain honors needed to be paid, to ensure that things would remain peaceful- if only for the time being. He’d spent some time worrying about how he’d shift the balance of power in the city, how he’d buy himself a buffer of time- but it was as clear as day.

  Rousse was already the mad dog. Rousse the Black, Rousse the Dread, he was never expected to remain within the confines of Zairosi law. But it did not stop the noble courts of Zairos from seething in rage when he gathered his Blackcloaks and set to the streets of the market district freeing slaves. They had shattered chains, kicked in doors, set ablaze the stands where men in chains were sold. They stormed the markets and the docks. Merchants fled before his mobs, the guards withheld in the Acropolis by Markos, on Rousse’s orders.

  They dined on honeys and and sweet pastries and the citrus fruits. The slaves enjoyed not the scent of soot and salt today, but the fine wines and foods their labors paid for. Rousse was no pirate that day, he was not a man feared.

  When the people looked up at him, atop his horse, he saw admiration, he saw glee and reverence. And he wanted more.

  “Chainbreaker!” They called him, the chants carrying through the streets. If he had not stopped them, Rousse knew he could have upended the whole city by force. But he and his blackcloaks managed to direct their damage, to keep them from affecting too much of the city.

  “You are free!” Rousse had shouted. “Free to do as you please. You may flee this place, run to your ships and take flight!” He rode his horse around the front of the crowd, they were captivated.

  “Or you can take my black cloak, ride at my back, and become kings of men!” He shouted. “We will ride to Hekros and shatter that mighty iron city! Its wealth, its warriors, will be ours!” He looked across his amassed crowds, and pointed his blade to the Acropolis.

  “Already, mine hold the highest seats! Zairos is ours, and in a land of Kings no man shall be a slave! So go! Go and free your brothers!”

  The cries of the slaves had been deafening. With the Blackcloaks showing the way, they had ravaged the richest parts of the city, and by the end of the week his ranks had swelled to some five thousand blackcloaks- he’d need far more than his mere eight ships.

  He would relive that day every day if he could. The clattering of shattered chains, the screams of fearful slavers. The wonderful scent of burning- Rousse had never failed to love it. Burning was the smell of victory, the smell of shattered ships and broken barricades. The smell of fleeing foes and plunder, ripe for plucking. He allowed himself to be brought back to the moment as the opening of a door cast bright sunlight onto him. The door shut behind Markos, plunging them back into torchlight.

  “My true brother!” Rousse grinned as Markos entered. He was as stoic as ever.

  “The last of the slave markets has been dismantled. Elekailos was not pleased.” He rested his hands behind his back.

  “I don’t need him pleased, I need him obedient.” Rousse said. He ran a hand through his hair. “Is he recovering?” Rousse asked.

  “He calls for them in his sleep, occasionally.” Markos replied. “Less, now.”

  Rousse nodded. He hadn’t wanted to kill them. Elekailos was supposed to bend the knee- his pride had gotten him killed.

  “You sleep in the docks. Why leave me in the Acropolis?” Markos asked. He was not one for questions, Rousse hadn’t expected it.

  “I have need of you close to the boy, keeping a rein on the guards.” Rousse replied.

  “Yet you are not there. You sequester yourself here. Why?”

  Rousse glanced around the dusty stone chamber. It had been a slaver’s market once, but now the long hall had been transformed into his command post. A long black carpet had been laid from the door to his desk, and the Zairosi banners had been torn from their places, replaced with Rousse’s own marking- a pure black banner. There had been a new addition to his banners though, in a white chain, cracked through its middle.

  Chainbreaker.

  He grinned every time he looked at the banner. He could not help himself. He’d requested already that the same design be put on the sails of his warships. They’d stripped several fabric merchants of their supply already.

  “I am closer to the people here.” Rousse said, but he knew that wasn’t why. The queen’s final choked cries under Kyros were still in his mind, as freshly as had they just been uttered. Markos stared at him for a time before accepting this answer.

  “When you move on, am I to remain with the boy?” Markos asked.

  “Yes.” Rousse nodded. “I would see him left in safe hands. The guards here respect you, the nobility.” He scratched his chin as he leaned back in his uncomfortable wooden chair. “I am as a wild dog to these people. They fear me. I’ll take my freedmen and march north. You rebuild here, you get them loyal to you. They can hate me all they like, so long as they obey the Wyrm-Killer.” He said.

  “This Lady Demete that Ser Jamen has spoken of, what of her?”

  “You’re full of questions today, aren’t you?” Rousse asked. Markos cast his head down in shame.

  “My apologies my lord, I did not intend-” Rousse waved off Markos’ apology.

  “She claims she has the egg. My egg.” Rousse explained. “Among other things. Ser Jamen says the woman is a mystic of some kind, that her villa is full of all matter of oddity.”

  “Magic becomes stronger the further away from the Scar one travels.” Markos said. “Perhaps she has had them shipped north.”

  The Scar. That’s what they called Durendane down here, the lower classes anyway. The Landfall’s clearing of the mystical had always been portrayed positively to Rousse growing up, but here they treated the destruction of those creatures as some kind of tragedy. This land was full of tragedy, their stories were rich with it. He needed to ensure his did not become one of them.

  “Perhaps.” Rousse said. “Even your people find magic to be rare. What if she is lying, and this egg is mere fossil?”

  “Then it is the fault of the Scar.” Markos shrugged.

  “What of my other requests?” Rousse asked, changing the subject.

  “Elekailos the Ist had a daughter of marriageable age.” He shifted uncomfortably in place. “It would secure our reign.”

  “You don’t think it’s a good idea?” Rousse asked.

  “Her father lay dead by your hand.” Markos replied.

  “He had many children. Perhaps she didn’t like him.” Rousse shrugged. They had mostly been restrained to the Acropolis, but Elekailos’ eldest daughter had been missing from the castle on the night of his takeover.

  “Have you found Medessa?” He asked. The woman was named for some ancient creature who lorded over serpents.

  “My men are searching, but I suspect the guards are hiding her. She could be a threat to our rule, if not captured soon.” Markos’ eyes flickered to the map on the table before Rousse.

  There seemed always a task that needed completing.

  “Keep your men in the Acropolis. The guards will not make any overt movement while we have the heirs of Elekailos under our grasp. Find the daughter.” He ordered. Markos gave a crisp salute and faded out through the doorway, once more leaving Rousse alone in the darkness of his hall.

  He needed to secure his hold on the city, and though he found the practice of arranged marriage unsavory, he couldn’t deny that it had its strategic uses. If he legitimized Markos’ rule through marrying the daughter of the Tyrant, he could make him brother by marriage to the new King. The coffers and men of Zairos would be needed, its port especially so, if Rousse’s plan was to be successful. He’d take Hekros, but Delphos was his true goal. The City of Mysteries was purported to have the single greatest collection of magical artifacts in the north of the free cities. Their reverence for such things prevented them from using them in war, out of fear of losing that same strength that granted them independence. Just as they were too fearful to expand, to conquer, their enemies were too fearful to press in and finish off the ailing state. Rousse would make better use of their tools than they did.

  Ser Jamen of Southway and his entourage met Rousse just south of Zairos. They’d been camping in the forest to the north of her villa, treating with her in the meadow rather than her home. Rousse flexed his shoulders, shifting his weight in the saddle. It was a pleasure to be out of the city, and off the sea. Rousse had enough of bobbing waves and manmade halls.He needed the feel of soil, a horse under him and a sword at his side, the smell of the forest with the fresh dew of morning. He had no hatred of the sea, or his ships, but he was never meant to be a pirate. Kings did not rule waves, but mountains. Ser Jamen had been given thirty of Rousse’s best riders, all of them Knights of lesser import from Durendane. He’d promised to make each of them kings in their own right, twenty years prior. With Zairos, he had begun to repay their loyalty.

  “My Lord!” Ser Jamen saluted as he dragged his helmet from his head. “Lady Demete sends her regards!”

  “Ser Jamen.” Rousse returned his salute. “Have you brought the egg?”

  “No, my lord.. But she did let me see the thing. It’s real! I saw it with my own two eyes, blue scales as rich and thick as sapphires! I doubt a man could crack it with a warhammer.”

  Rousse tried to contain himself, but excitement rose within him like a rogue wave. He was so close now that he could practically taste it, he could feel the weight of the egg in his hands.

  “It was no falsehood, a true Wyrm’s egg?” Rousse asked, and he could tell by the dreamy look in Ser Jamen’s eye that it was.

  “It was like the Chronicles of Landfall, as if I had stepped into those very legends! There are weapons galore, she showed me a sword that cleaves through iron like a knife through hot butter!” Rousse could see the knight was already there in his mind, back within the halls of that manor.

  Rousse was contemplating something else, however.

  “Why hasn’t she used them?” Rousse asked.

  “What?” Ser Jamen was shocked back to the present as some of the riders murmured to each other. Their group of riders idled in the shade of a wild olive grove, the trees granting some respite from the hot sun above.

  “She has the Egg, she has this sword. Presumably other magics. She is content to remain outside of town? To be seen a madwoman?”

  Ser Jamen shrugged.

  “Women are unknowable, even in the legends.”

  The knight looked past him, towards the city.

  “It seems the conquest went well?” He asked.

  “A boy-king sits the throne.” Rousse replied, urging his horse forward. “Crowned in blood. I can only hope he does not return my favor.” He once more cursed Kyros in his head.

  No, you were a fool to pick him. You’d seen him fight. He’s a pirate, no northern Knight. Rousse tried to push the thoughts away. He could not begrudge a pirate his nature anymore than he could a hissing serpent or a barking dog. But he did put the pirate in the room.

  Pushing his horse to the front of the procession, Rousse enjoyed the curious looks they gathered from travelers on the road. It was far too hot for full plate in Zairos, but his knights still stood out with their strange garb and banners from foreign lands. But just as many who were curious, were there people closing their shutters. Turning the eyes of their children.

  “Scar-Men” they whispered.

  The reason the gods went silent. Rousse frowned to himself, bouncing in the saddle as his horse trotted along, light armor and swords clinking. His men talked amongst themselves, of the recent wealth, of the freeing of slaves. But Rousse’s mind wandered back to the Landfall. Gods had not walked the world since long before, but he could recall many southern legends that claimed the gods still spoke to the world. No man in recent memory had accomplished anything of the sort. Be it ascension to their realm, or direct communication. Now, the gods spoke in visions and events. Translated by priests.

  Lady Demete’s villa was placed upon a strategically valuable position to the south of the city. Rousse, had he been in charge, would have placed a fort on the hill- though her villa might as well have been one. The walls were imposing enough, though Rousse noted they were limestone. Her towers flew the banners of Zairos, blue diamond on white X, with the only difference being that the banner itself was not blue, but black.

  Ser Jamen brought his horse to a stop, eyeing the banners warily.

  “They didn’t look like that yestermorn.” He scratched at his chin.

  “Perhaps she seeks to flatter me?” Rousse brought his own horse up alongside Ser Jamen’s as the knights idled behind them, warily watching the hills and nearby copses of trees. Hands idled near blades while the men kept an eye out for any ambush.

  Just as Rousse was considering his next move, their group burst into life as they heard the thunder of hooves. Iron screeched on scabbard as hands flew to blades, and men drew up around Rousse.

  Zairosi cavalry came to a stop ahead of them, twenty men rounding the base of the hill the fort-villa was atop.

  Lady Demete sat atop the leading horse, dressed as though she were prepared for some sort of gala and not sitting at the head of nearly two dozen armored warriors.

  “Rousse ‘the Black’ Azalus.” Lady Demete addressed him. She stared him up and down as if she were inspecting some specimen of wild animal.

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  “Yes. I suppose you’ll do.” She said, begrudgingly, as she motioned for the two of them to follow her, wheeling her horse about and leading her procession up the hill. His knights nervously looked amongst each other.

  “My Lord?” Ser Jamen asked, looking between the two of them.

  The trees of the nearby forest cast a deep shade on the road as Rousse glanced over his shoulder at the men behind him. Horses snorted and stamped nervously.

  “Well, we didn’t ride out here for nothing.” Rousse waved his hand, and they set to ascending the sun speckled hill to Demete’s Villa.

  The pale walls of the villa were dappled with the golden afternoon sunlight. Leading up the hill were finely groomed olive, date, and fig trees which lined the road. The branches were fat and heavy with rich fruit. His knights passed under the shade of their branches, protected from the sun as they moved towards the villa.

  “She is not so cold, once she knows you.” Ser Jamen whispered, his horse snorting as if in agreement. Rousse found himself wishing he’d brought Markos. The villa appeared to have two sets of concentric walls, an exterior structure with a gatehouse, barracks, and stables, and the interior where Lady Demete would entertain guests. There were manors like this scattered across the countryside- nobles often had to worry about peasant sieges. They left their riders milling about the stables, and the three of them entered the Villa proper. Grapes and fresh fruits of all sorts weaved a natural garden into the villa.

  “As much as I miss home, we could stand to learn a thing or two.” Ser Jamen plucked a few grapes from a vine as their trio walked. Lady Demete did not respond as they crossed the marble courtyard. The bright terracotta rooftops of the structures seemed to almost shine in the afternoon light.

  “Such elegance outshines even the Acropolis.” Rousse offered, hoping to appeal to her ego.

  “The Acropolis is a den of beggars and thieves. We are here to make righteous this world.” She said, giving an almost euphoric sigh. Ser Jamen glanced at Rousse, raising his eyebrow.

  Rousse shrugged.

  The interior of the Villa was cool and shaded, the wall directly ahead of the main entrance graced by a fresco of a man in velvet red robes, arms spread wide. Beneath him were fields of golden flowers, and piled at his feet a great many riches.

  Lady Demete took a moment to kneel before the fresco, praying in her native Zairosi. Rousse noted the four guards within the room, and so decided to copy her, kneeling before the fresco. Ser Jamen was more hesitant.

  “Nine forgive me.” He whispered, coming to one knee before the fresco, stubbornly refusing to lower his head. The trio of them knelt before the Zairosi god of wealth.

  Now within the structure, they could hear the clattering of cooks in her kitchen, the echo of distant conversation. The entrance opened into a courtyard flanked on all sides by pillars, as well as a pool of water just deep enough to relax in. A dozen people lounged about the water, indulging in wine and cheese, grapes and olives.

  Rousse's own stomach growled and he returned his attention to his hostess, who was now rising from her kneeling position. The interior of the villa was split into a number of smaller structures, a dining area, a kitchen, and a number of rooms. A door to their left lead into what seemed to be a miniature reception hall.

  “Even their minor nobility live in these little palaces.” Ser Jamen remarked, gingerly touching the pale stone walls, as if they may crumble away under his touch. The very architecture of the building was art. It was clear, this building was meant to serve as both a fortification, and a status statement.

  Two servants approached, kneeling before the men and extending their arms reverently. Rousse turned over his sword, Ser Jamen following his lead.

  “Make yourselves at home. I shall ensure all of the preparations are complete.”

  Before Rousse could ask what she meant, Lady Demete left the room, seemingly gliding across the stone of the garden floor.

  “I shall remain armed, my Lord. Relax.” Ser Jamen smiled confidently. He had a hunting knife about his hip. Rousse allowed himself to be doffed of his armor, hoping she’d see it as the show of faith it was.

  He paced across the stone and under the open sun in the gap of the roof above the garden and pool. Those within the pool called to him in their native tongue, but Rousse was little concerned with the water. There were a total of ten guards spread through the area. The walls were adorned with lavish frescos of the pantheon of the free cities, and the scent of incense was heavy in the air as the smoke drifted from hanging thuribles.

  A servant with a platter of cheeses, meats, and bread began to drift through the room, allowing people to take from the plate. Another servant approached him with a goblet of wine.

  Ser Jamen took the wine first, sipping it. They waited a few minutes before he nodded, passing the drink back to his liege.

  They did not have to wait long. Lady Demete soon returned, followed by many cooks and servants, as those within the pool began to move to eat. They spoke in the Zairosi tongue. Small tables littered the room, where the food and wine was left for guests and servants alike to eat at their own pace.

  Lady Demete brought them through the audience hall while the rest of her house busied itself with the feasting. Behind a tapestry which hung behind her throne, she dragged a brick out of place, and then another. In the darkness of the hall, the grinding of stone on stone was the only sound as Ser Jamen and Rousse approached, assisting her in the quick dismantling of the wall. There was a cold and still space there, with air stale and damp with mildew.

  “What have you brought us to?” Rousse asked. Ser Jamen’s hand idled near his knife.

  “My reliquary. Our salvation. Our resurgence.” She breathed in the darkness, striding through the threshold and into the void. Even mere feet away, Rousse could no longer see her, as if the light was afraid to follow her into the room. But he was not called Rousse the Light. The exiled king pushed through the wall of cold after her, Ser Jamen coughing in the chill as Rousse waited for his eyes to adjust, half expecting that assassins would be upon him any moment.

  You’re putting a lot of faith in a woman you’ve only just met. He chastised himself, but it did not stop him from following the sound of Lady Demete’s steps deeper into the room as she set to lighting a torch.

  “You said she showed you?” Rousse whispered.

  “Not here. At the camp.” Ser Jamen replied, fumbling through the darkness with one hand on the left wall. As a torch flared to life, and its tendrils weakly spread through the room, Rousse took in everything within.

  When she had said reliquary, he had been imagining something more impressive. All about the room were bookshelves and scroll repositories, tapestries and engraved stones. There was the occasional sword, or helm, or cloak, but Rousse’s eyes were drawn towards the furthest point of the room from the door. Set upon an altar, wrapped in all manner of soft silks and velvets, pillows and blankets of all kinds, were six eggs.

  In the dusty dampness of this underground place they struck a striking image. A visage of wealth, piled atop dirt. Rousse drew closer to the eggs.

  One was large, and blue, and towered over the others as their king. The other five were roughly a fourth its size, but still big enough it’d take two hands for Rousse to hold them comfortably.

  The tallest of the eggs was more beautiful than the purest sapphire, a richer blue than the deepest ocean. It was covered in an armor of sorts, overlapping scales not unlike those of a fish or lizard. He knew it from the moment he had seen it. It was more beautiful than any legend could even try to portray. Rousse was stricken silent by it.

  Drakkenscale. Though the knights of Landfall had slain all of the brothers of Fafnyr, the inbred descendants of Dragons were rumored to live on in some portions of the world. Gone were the majestic beings of the old sagas, wise and powerful and terrible. In their place were animals that bore mere resemblance to their kind, their scale and their fury and their sharpened teeth- but they bore only the lesser wit of predators, and none were considered capable of speech.

  The egg. His egg. Was finally before him.

  Who could deny me with you at my side? He asked the egg in his mind, though he knew it could not reply. He took a step forward, almost involuntarily. Lady Demete turned to him, smiling widely.

  “You can hear him, can’t you? He’s been waiting.” She spoke it as reverently as scripture.

  Ser Jamen glanced between the two of them, hand glued to his sword. Rousse stepped through the reliquary, passing the various artifacts to either side of him. They were paltry, insulting, compared to the majesty of that most beautiful shard of fallen azure sky. It seemed to beckon to him, to call to him. As Rousse closed in, he pressed his palm to the egg. It was warm, like a drawn bath. Instantly he was taken back, to his youth, to warm morning baths in the Castle Azalon before long days riding and learning and fighting. He remembered winters spent in the north, just because his father knew how much he loved the snow. In a blink, he was back in Demete’s reliquary.

  Rousse almost swore he could hear the creature swimming within the egg.

  “Why?” He asked, stupefied, turning to face Demete.

  “Because we have seen. We have heard.” She spoke earnestly, slithering across the stone to place a hand on his shoulder.

  “He awaited the Castaway, the One Who Walks in Shade. The one who would spark the fire, whose progeny would spread to the four corners of the world.” She spoke urgently now.

  Ser Jamen swallowed, glancing between Rousse and the clutch of eggs.

  “What of the others?” He asked. “What are they?”

  She waved a dismissive hand.

  “Hawks.” She replied, patting one of the massive eggs. “The Kingclaws are terrible beasts, descended from the very hawks that Great Attalos slew in his trials. Such mounts are worthy of the sons of kings.”

  Rousse ran a palm across the warm surface of the egg. It thrummed with power, with potential.

  “How could they stop us?” He asked.

  “My Liege?” Ser Jamen asked.

  “If we controlled the skies, who could stop us? The Kingdom could be mine.” He whispered. He could almost feel the throne beneath him, the weight of the crown on his head. His crown. His throne. But he wasn’t on it, instead, it was Lucen’s girl. Rousse’s niece. He didn’t have anything against the girl, surely she was merely puppeteered by her council. She wasn’t strong enough to reign yet. What did that mean for the Kingdom? How could he defy them? 5,000 men could not conquer a Kingdom. But he could make his men kings on the backs of the Free Cities. Fractious and quarrelsome as they were, he doubted they could pull together in time to stop his conquest. His hold on Zairos was tenuous at best, the loss of the city would destroy his campaign. He needed a safety net. Hekros too had slaves. His freedmen would march to save them, and the Blackcloaks would swell once more. Like a snowball, he could roll downhill towards his throne.

  Rousse turned to face Demete.

  “What do you want for the egg?” He asked.

  “Acros.” She smiled.

  The small walled settlement was to the west of Delphos, comparable to Durendalian Bannerlords.

  “That is all?” He questioned.

  “That is all.” She confirmed, a placid smile on her face. There was not a hint of deception about her. Ser Jamen placed a hand on his shoulder, the look in his eyes speaking for him.

  This is too easy. Too good to be true.

  He could solve that once he had the Wyrm.

  “Then Acros is yours, to do with as you wish.” Rousse agreed.

  “My Liege-” Ser Jamen objected but Demete spoke.

  “Then it is settled. Together, we will forge a better Blade.”

  “Ser Jamen, tell my Knights.” Rousse ordered before his friend could object any further. For a moment, he did not move. He watched his king in tortured silence, before he nodded.

  “Yes, my liege.” He bowed before exiting the room.

  Demete retrieved another gift for Rousse, carrying to him a sheathed blade, curved and beautiful in every aspect. The sheath was of some strange red leather, carved with many curving shattered chains. The blade itself felt of perfect balance.

  “It is the Chainbreaker.” She said. “The Freedmen will fall behind it in their thousands, and the world will quake with the marching of your army.”

  “You are too kind.” Rousse replied cautiously.

  Demete lead him from the reliquary, and back into the warmth of the villa.

  She would have allowed them to stay that night within her walls. A prickling little worry clawed within his gut, and Rousse decided to camp with his men on the outside of the Villas walls. It was too small to fit both her men and his own, but his Black Knights carried their own bedrolls. Several among them carried their own single-man tents as well. Rousse’s pavilion was rather small, carried by a few of the squires, protisti, and servants. He tried to lull himself to sleep with the crackling of watchfire and the distant whisper of nighttime conversation. But he was a bundle of crackling nerves. He should get up, ride a horse or train with his blade or start rallying the Freedmen. He was wasting time. But a man without sleep would die. He followed the black stripes on the ceiling of his pavilion. Somewhere in the trees above his tent, he could hear the subtle creaking of branches. The wind jostled the pavilion gently. Rousse tried to close his eyes, but sleep would not come to him. Something cracked outside of his tent, and he paused. Waiting in the darkness of his pavilion, there was no breach of the silence. Rousse waited, and waited, yet nothing came. Eventually, a restless sleep took him.

  In the stygian darkness of midnight’s peak, Rousse was awoken from his dreamless slumber by an unnatural sound. A sort of scratching shuffling noise that he could not place. It could not be the fluttering of the pavilion or banners, for the wind was still. It couldn’t be a patrolling guard, but it held the familiar clatter of scabbard against body. Rousse opened his eyes in the darkness of the pavilion, blinking at the darkness. He could not see, but he was not alone. He knew that much. There were eyes on him, he could feel them like the gentle fingers of a hidden stalker. He tried to force his eyes to adjust, remaining still within his bedroll as he kept his breathing steady. He couldn’t let them know he knew. Rousse silently cursed at himself, his sword away from him, his dagger across the pavilion. He was alone. If he shouted, there was no guarantee that his men would reach him before his death.

  There was a single, cautious step. When Rousse did not move, there was another, then a third, as his enemy crossed the room. Slowly, gently, he reached his hand towards his head in the darkness, praying to the Nine, to the Triune, to any god watching, that he would not be seen. Wrapping a fist around his pillow, he waited for another step. A crunching upon the ground. He could only guess, but Rousse determined his enemy was perhaps five feet away. It took everything within him to keep his breathing steady, to pretend he was not awake.The assassin did not approach. For agonizing seconds, the opponent did not strike. He watched. The killer murdered him with his eyes. Even in darkness, he could sense the malice of the gaze. First, he hurled his pillow.

  In a lunge like a panther, he pounced from the bed.

  Colliding, they tumbled across the tent.

  The vague shape of a shadow before him, he jerked for the dagger.

  “Catspaw, sneak!” Rousse hissed. “You die!”

  His killer made no sound. Dagger flashed, flesh spit.

  Rousse hissed, swinging into the darkness.

  Stars flashed in the shadows as a fist collided with his skull. Rousse kneed, aiming for the groin.

  His enemy grunted, he grinned as he slammed a fist into the mass of flesh before him. Dagger darted past his head, and Rousse felt part of his ear tug by with it.

  He grabbed, he bit, he bled.

  Foe bashed with all his limbs. They both fell into the dirt.

  Tossing, turning, Rousse grabbed the blade. It bit, he could smell his blood fleeing him. Iron scent stung his nose.

  “Who sent you?” Rousse grunted. His foe gave a gargling snarl.

  He wrapped both hands around the shadow’s throat. He could feel his fingers touch. Rousse wrung his neck like a rag. The tent’s flaps swung open, light cast from the flame.

  Rousse could see the man’s tongueless mouth gasping for air as he choked the last of his life from him.