pulled his sword in, and stabbed. The edge sliced through cloth, flesh and into lung. As the thief fell, Senke gave him a good bash on the head with his mace, just to be sure. Two more rushed ahead, but a blinding flash from behind Haern dazed them. With such a handicap, they fell with ease to the skilled fighters.
“Help Brug!” Senke shouted as three more Wolves approached from the north, joining the others.
“Brug?”
“The short fat guy.”
Haern felt a moment’s hesitation. He’d fought alone for so long, he wasn’t used to obeying orders. But then again, he felt himself slipping once more into the past, nothing but an awkward child learning from his masters. He turned and circled the fountain, joining Brug, who was bleeding from his shoulder and face. A dagger was still lodged in the crease of his armor. He yanked it out as he ran past, hurled it at his opponent, and then followed it up with a flying kick. The dagger hit the thief’s throat with the hilt, and then Haern’s foot cracked his chest. The Wolf dropped to one knee, lifting his dagger in a clumsy defense. Haern cut him down, a clean slice through his throat.
Brug looked ready to explode.
“I had him!”
Haern blinked. “Uh, sorry?”
A fireball sailed over both their heads, delaying the attack of several Wolves who had abandoned their attempts at shooting the wizard and instead chosen to close the distance. Haern felt the heat of it on his neck.
“Damn it, Brug, what am I paying you for? And you, Haern, right? Keep him alive, will you?”
Haern turned to his opponents, somewhat amused at how much redder Brug’s face grew. He blubbered, then rushed ahead, punching the air with his daggers. Haern’s amusement left. The idiot was going to get himself killed because of his pride. He rushed after, the two of them barreling at the three Wolves as if they were madmen. At the time, it was a fair assessment. The Wolves wavered, he saw the doubt in their eyes, and then they turned to flee. Haern killed two, for he was too fast and had far too much momentum to be outrun. He sliced the hamstring of the third as he ran on by, allowing Brug to catch up and eviscerate the thief with his punch-daggers.
Sucking in air, Haern turned back to the fountain. The last of the Wolves were either dead or fleeing. Tarlak stepped out of the fountain, helped Delysia follow, and then waved.
“That wasn’t so bad,” he said.
Haern shook his head. Off his rocker, indeed.
14
Ghost followed the Watcher south, though he did so with no hurry. He’d watched him fight, and learned two things: One, no puke-brained mercenary was going to be the one to do him in. Two, he had someone close to him. He might have thought his quiet voice concealed his emotions, but he heard the hint of worry, particularly about the one named Delysia. With that, it was only a matter of time before he brought the Watcher down. You couldn’t have attachments, not if you wanted to survive against someone like Ghost.
Tarlak Eschaton wasn’t well-known to him, but if he played the mercenary game, then he had contacts, friends, employers, maybe even a spot in the guild. There would be no hiding. So as he strolled down the street, always given a wide berth by the groups that rushed past with bloodied swords, he paused and looked west. A strange commotion was brewing down there—he could tell by the torches and the way several of the recent patrols all turned in that direction. Had the fighting coalesced into an actual battlefront? Surely not. They weren’t that organized, nor would that benefit the thieves in any way. So what then?
His hands on his hilts, he strode over to the mob. He estimated at least sixty men gathered around what he realized was the temple of Ashhur. So far they remained at the steps, but that appeared ready to change at any moment. Fifteen priests stood in their way, their hands at their sides. They were proficient with many spells, he knew, but how effective they’d be on armored men, he was unsure. An elderly priest with a bald head stood in the center of the steps, and he faced the crowd without any semblance of worry. Sweat ran down the sides of his neck, though, and Ghost knew him just as scared as the rest.
“You cannot enter,” the old man shouted, hardly heard