a man ostracized by his peers for being different, though how different, Khirro didn’t think he’d yet learned. Through it all he remained of good spirit, caring for those about him. Ghaul, on the other hand, was more what he’d have expected from a life-soldier: hardened, tough, uncompromising. He wondered about Ghaul’s motivations. Was he here out of loyalty to the crown? A glory seeker? Or something else? His joy in killing appalled Khirro at first, but it was his profession, something for which he’d been bred and trained his whole life. It didn’t matter why Ghaul was there, only that he was with them, helping accomplish their goal.
But he’s been so different since Shyn joined us.
Khirro thought back to when he and Ghaul had eluded their pursuers, scrambling along the bottom of the drainage ditch. So long ago. Ghaul hadn’t been so angry before there was another soldier in their company.
Athryn shifted, his cloak brushing against his breeches, unnaturally loud as the darkness amplified it. They all sat with their thoughts, waiting, listening for a sign of their friends returning. Or something else.
It was hard to tell how much time had passed when the sound of metal clanging against metal echoed down the tunnel. It seemed to come from everywhere at once. Khirro leaped to his feet, Elyea close behind.
“Athryn, where did that come from?”
“I do not know.” The magician moved to his side, looking first down one tunnel then the other. The darkness revealed nothing.
“Shyn,” Khirro yelled. It was impossible to know if his companions were the source of the noise, but he had to assume they were and they might need help. “Ghaul! Where are you?”
Khirro’s voice reverberated down the tunnels, bouncing from wall to wall, finally swallowed up by distance. No answer came. The clash of steel ceased. Breathless minutes passed. Khirro raised the Mourning Sword, ready for anything, and was startled to see the runes glowing a deep red, reflecting swirls of crimson in Athryn’s metal mask.
There’s blood in the air.
The thought fled as the sound of footsteps echoed down the passage, growing louder. And closer.
But from which way do they come?
Shyn strode along the passage as quickly as he dared, his senses tingling. He felt feathers bristling just below the surface of his skin and struggled to keep them at bay. A falcon would be of no use in an underground tunnel.
The tunnel ran fairly straight, but even Shyn's heightened vision couldn’t penetrate far, and he didn’t want to walk into the wall—or anything else. The farther they advanced, the stronger the breeze felt on his face. He knew the others hadn’t felt it—skin used to judging wind velocity and direction based on the movement of feathers was more sensitive than the average man’s flesh. As minute as the movement of air was, he relished the feel of it against his cheek, allowed it to distract him from the knot in his belly.
“It grows stronger,” he whispered over his shoulder. Ghaul grunted.
They walked on, their footsteps disturbing silence unbroken for centuries. Shyn probed ahead with his sword, the tip occasionally scraping the wall as the tunnel veered a little left or right. The sound of leather scraping against stone followed him as Ghaul dragged his hand along the passage wall looking for side tunnels. After a few minutes, Shyn saw a little farther, his sensitive eyes detecting a change in the level of light. Hope quelled the bird beneath his skin.
“Can you see the light, Ghaul?”
“No.”
“Up ahead. It’s dim, but grows brighter.”
The wan light allowed Shyn to see several paces ahead. A wall soon loomed, ending the passageway.
“We’ve reached the end.” Shyn halted. “This is where the tunnel stops.”
He touched the wall and looked up along its surface. At the top was a slit smaller than a man’s little finger. The tiny opening—an air hole—was responsible for the light and the movement of air only Shyn felt. He couldn’t tell whether moonlight or sunlight shone through—they must be a long way underground for it to be so diffuse. The hope that had calmed him disappeared; the short hairs on the back of his neck stirred, his flesh prickled.
“This is where it ends,” Ghaul said, voice low and husky.
Ghaul's tone set Shyn's nerves screaming of danger. He gripped his sword with both hands and turned, blade held before him.
Ghaul stood waiting, sword raised. He swung it down savagely, catching Shyn half by surprise, but the tip scraped the stone ceiling showering sparks twinkling into the