James Clemens - Shadowfall

Bullhounds met them, crouched down, growling.

“Call off your dogs!” Argent bellowed, taking in the scene with a glance. They were in a domed chamber, crumbling seats circling the walls.

On the room’s far side, Lorr perched at the edge of a pit, staring down. When he glanced up, he seemed unsurprised.

Near him, a slimmer figure leaned over the same pit.

The shadowcloak didn’t fully obscure the body of the woman beneath. It must be Kathryn.

Between them stood a phalanx of Shadowknights, led by one man, looming and full of menace, fully masked.

It had to be Tylar, come for his woman.

Triumphant, Argent raced forward, sword raised. One of the bullhounds lunged at him. But with reflexes borne of shadow, he sidestepped its teeth as Symon drove the beast away. A bloody howl of pain erupted as Symon stabbed the dog.

“Don’t!” Lorr cried out.

The scream from the hound suddenly cut off. Argent allowed himself a grimace of satisfaction. Symon was second only to Argent in skill with a blade.

The leader of the knights glowered at him. Did Tylar recognize the man who had sent him into slavery? Argent pulled more speed, wicking it to his sword arm. Blade became a blur, impossible to parry.

He lunged.

All it will take is a nick.

Then the man shifted, not so much movement as the flicker of a shadow. A blade appeared, flashing silver. It met Argent’s blade with a resounding clang.

Though surprised, Argent slipped the point of his blade along the other’s sword and thrust for the man’s forearm.

Just a mere cut…

But his point found only shadow.

The godslayer swirled away. A spark of silver glinted at the corner of Argent’s eye. He ducked and rolled from the sudden dagger thrust. The blade held in Tylar’s other hand.

Argent gained his feet, noting the fierce melee erupting around the room. Shadowknight fought Shadowknight. The second bullhound blocked the narrow entrance, snarling and snapping. It guarded over the remains of its companion. Blood pooled on the floor, making footing treacherous.

Argent continued his dance with his opponent. Parrying, lunging, sweeping. He had a dagger in his own hand now. None had ever withstood him so fiercely.

“Who are you?” Argent asked as their swords momentarily locked. Tylar could never fight this well.

The figure turned his blade ever so slightly, straining both men’s muscles. A glitter of lamplight lit the length of the sword. A golden wyrm bloomed on the blade, unnoticed until now.

Argent gasped. “Serpentfang…”

Shock dropped his guard. The other took the advantage and turned Argent’s blade. The Raven Knight kicked out at Argent’s knee, knocking him off his footing. Argent fell forward, his sword thrusting straight ahead. The blade passed under his combatant’s armpit and continued its plunge-into Symon ser Jaklar’s chest as the Wolf tried to sneak up on the other’s back.

The Raven Knight twirled away.

Symon stared at the blade in his chest, then up at Argent. A cry rose to his lips, but never came, his face twisted in agony, going gray, then black. Knight became statue, rooted to the stone floor.

Argent stumbled back, trying to free his blade, but the stone held it fast. He suddenly felt pressure against the hollow of his throat. He stared down the length of Serpentfang. The point bit into his neck.

“Call down your knights, Warden.” The command was spoken calmly but resounded across the chamber.

Attention drew to them. The ringing of steel went silent. The two forces retreated to either side, the wounded and dead between them. The Raven Knight continued to hold the sword to Argent’s throat.

“Have them stand down,” the Raven Knight commanded. “The godslayer is not with us.”

Argent lowered his fingers from the hilt of the cursed blade. He saw the truth as the knights at the man’s side dropped their masklins and threw back their hoods. Tylar was not among them.

Argent closed his eyes. He had been tricked. Kathryn had purposefully lured him away.

Knowing there was no gain, he faced his knights. “Stand down,” he said. He noted the many eyes on the stone figure of Symon ser Jaklar. His own blade impaled through it. Cursed. His guilt plain by sword and witness.

Movement drew his eye. Lorr led Kathryn before him. Or at least the woman he’d assumed was Kathryn.

The figure tossed back her hood. Argent stared in disbelief.

“Hello, Father,” Delia said.

Tylar watched Stormwatch Tower fall away beneath him. The large, potbellied flippercraft had lifted smoothly from its cradle, its aeroskimmers glowing with Grace as it rose into the dark skies. Off to the east, the barest glimmer promised dawn, but sunrise was still a full two bells away. If all went well, by the time the sun showed its full face, they would be landing in Chrismferry.

Rogger sat in the seat across from him, staring out his own window. “Storm clouds are coming from the south.”

Tylar twisted and spotted a few spats of lightning flickering.

Rogger leaned back. “Will I ever be dry?”

Kathryn and Gerrod shared their small compartment, one of ten private passenger cabins. Their two heads were bent in whispers.

Their only other companion was the stoic Eylan. The Wyr-woman studied Tylar from across the way, sitting stiffly, ever vigilant. She had spoken no more than three words since first joining them. And those words were Leave me be, to Rogger. Tylar suspected Rogger had heard those words often enough, but never with more command or more disdain. The two were posing as husband and wife, from Tashijan’s cook staff, off to visit relatives in Chrismferry.

“I don’t know why I married that woman,” Rogger had griped at her rebuke.

The others had boarded the craft separately. With all of Tashijan’s attention turned elsewhere, none of the guards had given the ship’s passengers more than a cursory glance. The Citadel was more concerned about the godslayer entering Tashijan, not leaving it. Gerrod already had his cabin paid and reserved. Tylar had played the master’s servant, hooded, his knight’s tattoos wiped over with face paint. He had also acted the cripple, not a difficult ruse. Kathryn had entered in secret, using her considerable gift for shadowplay. She kept hidden until all had gathered in Gerrod’s cabin.

Kathryn stirred from her discussion with Gerrod and turned to Tylar. “Both ravens we sent have been dispatched. Hopefully they’ll reach their intended in time.” She pulled out a letter from her cloak. It bore the castellan’s seal, her seal.

Tylar leaned over and read the name.

Kathryn looked into his eyes. “This had been for Perryl. A cover for him to join Gerrod in his trip to Chrismferry.”

He reached out and touched her hand, lowering the letter. “They’ll find him in time.”

“You can’t know that.”

Attempting to distract her from her worry, Tylar pointed to the letter. It was addressed to the same man to whom the wyndraven had been dispatched. “Will your man be able to aid us in gaining access to Chrism’s castillion?”

“He should. Yaellin de Mar is one of Chrism’s Hands.”

“Do you trust him?”

“Fully.”

“But with all that’s going on, how can you be so sure?”

Kathryn glanced past him and out the window. “Because Yaellin is Ser Henri’s bastard son.”

“Keep running,”Yaellin snarled.

Dart held Laurelle’s hand as they fled through the dark myrrwood. Thorns tugged and scraped, branches slapped and stung. Dart’s breath rasped ragged in her panicked flight. Laurelle let out soft moans.

Behind them, cries and shrieks grew ever closer. Ilk-beasts, once men and women, pursued them, crashing through the underbrush.