cart of bread, and deep into the wealthy eastern district. Madelyn’s eyes lingered on a dead merchant’s body laying beside what must have once been his wares.
Iron Road appeared empty but for a single man standing in the center. He raised his hood as he approached, his body wrapped in the thick fabric of his gray cloak.
“Madelyn Keenan,” the man said, a pleased smile on his face. “It is so good to meet you.”
The shouts of the mob seemed to have dimmed behind them. The mercenaries stepped closer together, and their pace slowed once more.
“What business have you with me?” she asked, her glare at Nigel urging him onward.
“I am Thren Felhorn. Everything and everyone inside Veldaren is my business.”
The mercenaries stopped completely.
“What is it you want?” she asked him, struggling to keep her composure. “Ransom? Or perhaps words of truce or surrender?”
Thren laughed.
“I want your husband tearing at his tunic and dusting his head with ashes. I want your family praying desperately for your return. Do you know who they’ll pray to when they do? I’ll be the one who determines your death or release. They’ll be praying to me.”
Men in gray cloaks stepped out from houses, alleys, and even fell from the rooftops.
“Surrounded,” Nigel whispered as he counted. “And at least twenty. Make an offer, milady. We won’t win this fight.”
“I have nothing to offer other than myself,” Madelyn said. “You have armor and a blade. Do your job.”
“Whatever she is paying you cannot be worth your life,” Thren said. A few of his men stepped closer, while others drew loaded crossbows and aimed them at the mercenaries. Their strings were thick and the bolts thicker. Nigel was certain they would pierce right through his chainmail.
“Forget this,” said one of mercenaries. He threw down his sword. Before he could take a step, Nigel stabbed him in the back and kicked his body to the dirt. He pointed the bloody blade at Thren, then saluted. Thren nodded, and the rest of Spider Guild took heed of the message; the mercenary captain was for their guildmaster to kill.
At the twang of the first crossbow, Nigel lunged. Thren drew his short swords, swinging them in a dance that was beautiful to behold. Two more mercenaries fell, their vitals punctured by crossbow bolts. The serving women screamed. Madelyn drew a dagger from her sash, determined to bloody the first man that touched her. The remaining house guards defended as best they could, their thick armor deflecting the stabs of the daggers, but they were horribly outnumbered and doomed to fall, and both sides knew it.
Nigel wielded his bastard sword with both hands, needing the grip to hang on when Thren smacked it aside with his blades. The mercenary captain had fought several battles, and even participated in the winter war between Ker and Mordan. Compared to battling armored men in thick lines, Thren was like a ghost. Every swing Nigel made seemed to cut air.
Blood splattered across his armor. Pain spiked up his left wrist. He’d been cut, yet he had no clue how. Nigel stepped back and thrust. Thren parried it aside with his left hand, then stepped forward and slashed with his right. Desperate, Nigel twisted so the blow would strike the thin pauldron atop his shoulder. It did, and the pain was brutal, but the deep bruise was far better than the gash it would have given his neck.
Behind him, a few of the serving girls dashed away. Crossbow bolts tore into their backs. Another fell, a rogue slicing her ankle with his dagger before unbuckling his belt. He was on top of her in moments, not caring that several of the mercenaries remained alive.
No longer caring for her safety, Madelyn leapt from the group. Her dagger stabbed the man’s neck. Blood gushed across his armor, and swearing softly, he rolled over and died.
“Oh gods,” the young girl sobbed. Madelyn took her face in her hands and pressed their foreheads together. Blood covered them both, and its sickly-sweet aroma was all she could smell.
“Hush now,” Madelyn told the girl. “Hush. We’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.”
Meanwhile, Nigel unleashed a storm of curses at Thren, hoping to distract him. He’d retreated several steps, his shoulder ached, and he’d avoided death twice by the sheer thickness of his chainmail. Breathing was difficult. Thren, however, was still smiling. He had not a drop of blood on him.
“Are you ready?” Thren asked, suddenly hopping backward and letting his cloak fall forward to