After Ira left them for a vine-cloaked terrace, they were seven. Three walked ahead of Ren and three walked behind him. Ren was armed with his bastard sword on one hip and his hand-span knife on the other—plus the little knife in his boot. Virn, walking straight ahead, carried that enormous two-hand blade hung upon his back. Asar had a shortsword and a handful of knives strapped across his chest. Omma, a head taller than all of them save Virn, pushed his way through the crowd with burly hands or the weighty staff he carried in one arm. Bran walked beside him, hand resting casually on his own sabre. Urro preferred a one-handed axe, though his man Kal was armed with a buckler shield and a hefty thrusting blade.
The mercenaries, armed to the teeth, cut a wide path through the streets of Saanazar. It was time for answers or for blood—or both.
Asar had arranged the meeting with Tobud, of course, and they had agreed on the same place as last time—the docks in the public harbour—in plain view of the citizens, but out of earshot. Last time, they had met according to Renado’s plans, for information he had offered as bait. This time, his gang met with the priests by necessity. They had kidnapped Woodro without provocation.
Admittedly not a fighter, Ira had suggested finding a vantage point. She would watch tactically and fetch their sixteen sailors if further muscle was necessary.
In the marina, armed mercenaries were hardly out of place. Ren ordered all but Virn to disperse to ambush positions. Urro and Kal easily blended in with sailors and found places on other docks. Asar leaned on a barrel on the cobblestone waterfront. Omma and Bran loitered amidst a crowd of traders near one of the closest streets.
Virn and Ren walked out onto the main dock, and there they waited.
They didn’t have to wait for long. Priests of the Atmos Septi arrived fifteen minutes later—first Tobud, then Archpriest Morrus of the Militant Creed. Though Ren recognized the man they had framed for the desired death of a Matriarch, he did not recognize the second Archpriest to arrive. Only the burgundy collar of his otherwise grey robes marked his rank.
The Grey Brethren were accompanied by guards or soldiers that Ren did not recognize. They were not heavily protected by plate—aside from shoulder brassards and brass half-helms, their armour consisted of top quality leather, silver patches of chainmail, and gilt crescent designs spanning their bright-grey tabard robes. These swordsmen were elite fighters, not common rabble.
Ren glanced at Virn after he looked them over. The scruffy titan was eying them unpleasantly. This was the second bad sign—Woodro’s capture had been the first.
The unknown Archpriest spoke first as he strode up to a position several paces across the width of the dock from the mercenaries. “I hear you’ve been looking for me,” he said. His forehead was wrinkled, and his clean shaven, late fifty-year-old features quivered more than his voice.
This is Roithe, the missing priest… Ren realized. The third ill omen. “And who are you?” he asked, feigning ignorance.
“I am Archpriest Roithe of the Speaker’s Creed.” The priest crossed his arms. “But your activities in Saanazar have extended beyond warnings of dangerous magicians and spying on my personal life. What exactly is your goal here?”
Ren glanced along the waterfront momentarily, picking out his men’s locations. There was no sign of further Brethren presence, but this was feeling more and more like a trap. “You seem to know a lot about me,” he said, glancing back at the mysterious priest.
“We have pieced some things together,” Roithe chided. “I suspect that in addition to plotting against magicians in Trell, you stole a certain ring from my colleague here, Morrus.”
Morrus, with his slicked-back silvery hair and gaunt frame, held up his hand to flash the ring in the sunlight. He scowled and lowered his hand.
Ren kept a straight face. “If you know who I am, then you know the schemes in Trell were not a vindictive plot,” he said. He glanced casually at Virn. “We’re just trying to keep our business running.”
“And the ring?” Morrus questioned, angrily. “Was that business, too?”
“Clearly your ring is right there,” Ren said impatiently. “Doesn’t seem to be missing to me.”
Morrus bristled to make a snapped reply, but Roithe’s gently raised hand stayed and calmed him. “This isn’t a meeting for witty replies and careless lies,” the older Archpriest said calmly. “Lives are on the line, Renado of Sheld.”
The drama of his statement made Morrus uncomfortable. Despite his flash of early frustration, the Militant priest looked at his peer. “What if they really are just trying to rebuild their crime family? What if this isn’t about—”
Roithe cut him off before he could mention what Ren assumed was the lack of news from Squora. “It is,” Roithe snapped. “Do not question me!”
Morrus fell silent, lowering his head an inch.
“Are you going to let him speak to you like that?” Ren asked, prodding Morrus’ anxiety against his compatriot.
“Enough!” Roithe boomed. His voice reverberated several times louder than it should have, echoing off ships on the other side of the harbour as it deafened Ren and sent his ears a-ringing. Sailors on nearby ships turned to stare. Ren knew that was magic—Archpriest Roithe was a magician as well as a cleric. Roithe stepped closer. “Tell me the truth clearly, right now—or your mercenary’s life is forfeit.”
Ren ran his hand through his hair. He didn’t need to look to know that his men were moving now. Omma and Bran would pick their way through the crowd and start across the dock casually. Asar would find his own way. His sign was a call for aid. “I didn’t steal the cursed ring!” Ren explained, still playing Roithe’s game of words. “Why would you blame me for it?”
“That’s the wrong response,” Roithe said, eyes narrowing. “Seize them.”
“Whoa, whoa!” Ren said, taking a step to the side. They would move up the dock the way he was moving, closer to land. “By the gods, what are you doing?” he demanded.
“We have no proof, Roithe!” Morrus protested, as the guards started to advance.
Roithe scoffed. “They are here for vengeance, on you, on me, on the Atmos Septi. We are all better off without them running around our streets,” he explained. “Morrus, you ordered his sisters hanged. We nearly killed his brother, and he killed our men at the rescue. That alone is grounds for an arrest. Renado, come peacefully—for the sake of you and your friends.”
Ren would not go peacefully, especially not after Roithe’s revelation that Morrus had given the order to kill his siblings. He forced down his anger—no easy feat—and continued backing away. “I came here to try to get my friend back, but clearly that isn’t going to happen. You aren’t even willing to listen to me,” he said. He turned his back and started to stride faster than the guards had been advancing. He heard Virn’s boots right behind him, and then Roithe’s next order.
“Do not let them escape!” the Archpriest cried. And then the chase began.
Ren and Virn thundered down the wharf, followed by the slapping leather boots of the elite soldiers. Bran had made it onto the dock at the far end—he yanked his sword free as he saw the run begin. Then, amidst a flurry of cloaks and shining metal, a dozen guards appeared amidst the crowd of harbour-folk. Before Omma could follow onto the wooden deck, the soldiers formed a wall of spears and shields on the shore. Virn would need to smash through, as he had once before, if they were going to escape. And Ira would already be running for reinforcements.
Then, the pursuit came to an uncertain interlude. A hiss started it, followed quickly by a quake to the wooden structure itself. A pulse of white water cut across the dark waves of the harbour, smashing through the beams that supported the wharf. When it reached the shore, the speedy blade of water smashed a dozen feet into the air, spraying wooden planks and salty spray all over the guards and harbour workers.
The dock itself hit the water with a heavy shake and Ren nearly lost his footing. Bran went down on one knee, then quickly reclaimed his footing. Ren glanced behind him; their pursuers had stopped to regain their balance as well. It wasn’t until Ren started walking toward the shore that he realized the purpose of Roithe’s powerful spell. Their boardwalk had been separated from land. They were adrift with six trained killers and a spell-casting priest. Morrus and Tobud stood behind the sixth Archpriest, trying to stay standing amidst the chaos.
Ren glanced at Virn. “Can you take the guards?” he asked. The only way out of this was to do what his gut wanted him to do—kill these scum priests. He needed to slip past their pursuers and get to Roithe.
“It’s about time,” Virn said. He pulled his scabbard off his back and tore the two-handed sword out with one hand, spinning it like a cattail.
Bran drew his sword as his cheeks paled. Where’s Woodro when I need him! Ren thought.
And so began the hardest battle Renado had dared to fight.
Of the six, Virn made quick work of the first—he spun on one heel and brought his weighty sword jerking up in a sudden uppercut that split the leather hauberk of the first enemy from hip to shoulder. The second soldier deflected his next slash and retaliated with a rapid thrust, glancing a gash along Virn’s off-hand forearm.
Bran’s own charge against a third of the enemies was disrupted when the elite warrior raised his own off-hand and made a yanking gesture toward himself. A gust of air knocked Bran off-balance and he stumbled forward, to be slashed across the stomach and thigh. He barely blocked the second blow and stumbled back, blood pouring down him.
These are magicians too, Ren realized—the fourth bad sign. It was too late to change his mind now. He couldn’t get through the opening, so he yanked out his dagger with his left hand. In his periphery, he watched Virn graze his opponent with a sword hack, only to make room for a second enemy to join the same bout. Ren took aim at the soldier advancing on Bran and threw his knife. The weapon rang loudly off the side of the guard’s helmet, then clattered on the edge of the dock. The surprise attack threw the fighter off-balance as he fell back into a defensive pose.
Bran rushed forward, despite his wounds, and slammed into the defending warrior. The guard plummeted over the edge and splashed into the harbour water.
Then another guard rushed in to take his comrade’s place. His charge ended at Bran’s exposed side, his sword running through ribs and shoving Bran to the wooden deck. Ren went cold. With a wordless cry, he threw himself forward, drawing blood with two slashes to the enemy’s arms as the soldier tried to withdraw his impaled weapon. The warrior lifted both hands, unarmed, and waved a current of water towards Ren, blinding him briefly and forcing him to stumble back once more. He readied himself for an attack—but it didn’t come.
When his quickly blinking eyes could see again, Ren found Kal and Urro dripping with water, standing over the now-fallen guard. They had swum to the dock from their adjacent positions. There was only one more guard behind the skirmish, looking for room to enter. Ren glanced at Virn—the magically-enhanced warrior had downed a second enemy, but still fought two soldiers. And he wasn’t doing well. His arms and shoulders were lacerated by numerous slashes, and blood ran down his face from a gash in his messy hair.
“Ren, go!” Urro barked, stepping toward the sixth guard with Kal in tow. As soon as they engaged, Ren readied his sword and his wits, and dashed through the battle-line. Virn roared wordlessly to distract one of his two from turning on Ren. Kal blocked a slash that was meant for Ren’s running legs.
Then Ren was through the fight, sprinting down the dock toward Roithe, Morrus, and Tobud. His loud wooden footsteps grew muted—before he could look down to see why, he lost his footing. His boots broke through the wooden planks, splashing in water as he tripped forward. He rolled across the deck of the wharf, clipping one of his forearms with his sword as he came to a stop in a mess of limbs and disconcertion.
He reclaimed his knees as he looked behind him—the section of dock he had run across had rotted into ancient wood, breaking apart like soil in the water. Only a few beams held it to the rest of the dock. That meant—Roithe!
He jumped to his feet just in time to sidestep a driving slash. Roithe hurried back with dexterity, and faced Ren with a small, thin blade. The old man hardly seemed a tough warrior, but he seemed immensely powerful with magic. Ren readied his own sword. He had trained for this on the Isle of Dusk.
Roithe’s second thrust was lightning quick, but Ren was quicker—he turned as he dodged and slashed his blade along Roithe’s robed back. His sword passed through air harmlessly, and the attacking priest faded like Ren’s sword had dispelled a cloud of steam. He spun to look up the dock again, from whence the attack had come. Now there were two Roithes—and both were advancing with short swords.
Ren blocked the first swing, only to have the attacking sword fade into the air. He countered the second apparition with a slash of his own—again swiping nothing but air—and back stepped when both illusions were replaced by further duplicates. A fifth and sixth were visible behind these four. Ren danced with a troop of Roithes. He knew better than to assume any was an illusion. He walked back as he fought, sometimes slashing aside two spectres at once.
As he reached to block one that had almost managed to flank him completely, a thrust got through his whirlwind defence. After moments of fighting light and thin air, it was brutally real—clipping through his side, glancing a rib and yanking back with a trail of blood. Ren grunted, but he didn’t have time for pain. He dove forward, following that one, real sword. He was rewarded with a yelped curse. His sword passed through two illusions and found purchase on a real Roithe, sinking an inch into his shoulder.
A flurry of new apparitions charged at Ren, and now he was truly surrounded. He fought for his life, adrenaline pounding, blood dripping. He kicked behind him whenever his sword wasn’t there, or spun his fist in front of him when he was compelled to angle his sword to the rear. Now, swords getting through his defence were common—they harmlessly poked at him and faded into the air. Each jarred him. His heart began to hurt; his lungs heaved.
Another metal edge dragged along his forearm and he nearly dropped his sword. He rushed forward bodily this time, smashing through spectral magicians in pursuit of that real man. This time he failed to get purchase and found himself lost in the midst of the illusory army.
The dance continued. Twice, Ren blocked real attacks—feeling the reverberation of Roithe’s true blade on his weaving bastard sword. Three more gashes appeared on Ren as he endured the battle. He drew real blood from his adversary again, and then again. But he was growing tired—constantly flailing his sword around was taking its toll. And his wounds hurt.
Through the fan of grey robes that surrounded him, Ren saw the other stretch of dock. He couldn’t be sure at first—even his peripherals were moving so fast—but it looked like the fight there was ended. Then, he got a clear look and his heart sank. Virn, Urro, Kal—they lay among the corpses of the guards, bloodied and motionless. Two of the elite guards were marching toward Ren’s battle.
This is how I die, Ren thought. He was drenched in sweat and blood from fighting illusions. More magicians were coming, armed with better weapons and training than the priest.
That’s when he realized that none of the illusions were bloodied. Ren was dripping from a half-dozen flesh wounds and he had given Roithe as many, but all of his spectral attackers looked as Roithe had during their meeting. Ren suddenly realized he could see the real Roithe this way. He turned his back on the approaching guards and strode ahead. Short swords slashed at him, dreamlike and ethereal. He walked right through them.
He made it ten steps down the dock before his sword began to rattle. He held it up, watching as flecks of rust spread across the blade, cracking and browning it. The blade didn’t completely waste away, but it looked like he could snap it with his hands now. Another illusion? he wondered. He didn’t stop walking.
Then the illusions withdrew a step and Ren paused. Roithe’s army of lookalikes drew their swords back. A unified attack—Ren couldn’t block them all, and there was surely a real sword amidst them. The apparitions thrust inward, and Ren twisted his sword in a wide sweep in front of them, dissolving a dozen swords into steam. A red-hot needle poked his back and kept pushing. The blade glanced off his shoulder blade, then punctured through his shoulder muscles. Ren shouted in pain and felt his fingers flex outward; his rusted sword dropped to the dock.
With Roithe’s sword driven through his shoulder, Ren dropped to one knee, grabbed his boot knife, and went for it. He twisted and slashed upward; a real Roithe, grey robe tattered and bloodied, flung himself back from the sudden attack. Ren’s knife dragged up his abdomen, ribs, and then arched upward, slicing the air. Roithe’s back hit the dock as he cried out. His split robe draped over a long, bloody gash.
The illusions vanished. A hundred uninjured Roithes drifted away on the briny breeze. With them went the two, advancing mage-soldiers. They had been fake, too? Instead, Ren saw Kal, limping along the dock and using his sword as a crutch. Virn and Urro lay with Bran, among the bodies of the dead guards.
Boots clamoured along the wood behind Ren. Teetering, he knew he didn’t have much fight left in him. Morrus or Tobud would finish him off before Kal could get to him. Then I’m taking Roithe with me, he thought. He let himself fall forward, aiming his small knife for the fallen magician’s heart.
Roithe vanished before he got there.
Renado hit the dock hard, face first. He cried out as the point of Roithe’s sword was forced back through the wound; it clattered on the planks beside Ren’s head. He coughed and felt blood and mucous running out from his freshly bruised face. Everything was pain. But Morrus was still coming. Ren let go of his knife and grabbed Roithe’s sword. He rolled over, slowly, to find the Archpriest standing over him, ready to plunge in the final blow.
Ren kicked the back of the man’s legs with his knees, toppling him. Morrus ended up on top of Ren, pinning his only functional arm to the deck and nearly losing hold of his own weapon—a small broadsword. Recovering from the fall, Morrus tossed aside his blade and drew a knife from his belt. Ren couldn’t move; he squirmed against Morrus’ weight, kicking boards with his feet.
Then an axe embedded in Morrus’ chest, splattering them both with blood. Kal had thrown it. As Morrus toppled over, Kal stumbled into view. He drew a knife from his belt, fell onto Morrus, and lost control. Blood sprayed onto the water. Ren let out his breath in relief.
“Spare me!” Tobud cried somewhere far from Ren’s line of sight. Ren tried sitting up but couldn’t.
“Swim,” Kal ordered, rising up from his excessive kill. Morrus—the man who had ordered Ren’s siblings slain—was thoroughly dead. Tobud splashed away.
“How are we doing?” Ren gasped.
“Not good,” Kal said. He pulled Ren up so he could see. Instead of sixteen sailors and a handful of mercenaries, the shore was home to a larger contingent of Grey Brethren guards than Ren had seen earlier. There was no going back that way. “There’s a rowboat,” Kal told him. “Knocked adrift when the dock fell.”
Kal helped Ren back down and then disappeared from view.
Ren laid there for a long while, bleeding on the wooden planks. He hoped Kal survived the swim; the man had been drenched in red from his own desperate fighting. Ren almost fell asleep as he waited. When at last Kal returned, dragging Ren to the side of a small boat, Ren rasped another question. “What about the others?”
“They didn’t make it,” Kal reported. He was dripping saltwater in Ren’s wounds.
Ren exhaled again. Virn had surpassed all his expectations, again and again, and Urro had served the Family for two or three decades. Not to mention Bran, who had served on Ren’s old smuggling ship—this day of vengeance had not come cheap.
Then Kal was rowing them across the harbour towards the shanty waterfront, out of sight of the military vessels. I just need to keep breathing, Ren thought. In, out, in, out…