“So,” Martin asked, taking a custard from the platter. “How do you find our city?”

  Darius licked icing off his finger, sucking on the nail. “When the sun is high, your people are the King’s ideal. I have yet to find a more law-abiding populace.” A shadow fell over his eyes. “If only I could say the same when the sun sleeps.”

  After gulping a bite of his morsel, Martin sighed, “Yes. And when the sun hides his face, the moon’s monsters, demons of the night, will fall upon the good, snuffing out their light. Our ancient passages seem more real by the day.” He shook his head. “Our vigilant watch grows weary. They drift to sleep, plummeting from the wall into death’s embrace. Few take the place of the watchmen. When no eye looks, the vermin crawl out of their holes.”

  Nodding, Darius assured, “What you face is not new nor are you alone in your struggle. Many fight to keep wickedness from overturning the peace. I commend you for your efforts.”

  “You humble me,” Martin replied with a sagging of his head. “Still, it’s easy to grow weary in well-doing. News from across the country makes me fear for my city. There was a merchant who passed through months ago,” Martin recalled. “A raven came with a message, telling us that the man was found dead a few weeks back. Well, they found what was left of him. His skeleton and wagon were halfway through Cur’s Pass.” He tapped his forehead. “Knife to the head.”

  Heiko hid his annoyance. He found out as much the night before, and much more. Two men left the city with the man. Neither was found at the scene of his murder, but one returned to the city with a fatter purse than one of his stature should have. His mouth remained a steel trap.

  “Horrid,” Darius answered. “I keep speaking to his Majesty about that terrible pass, overwhelmed with disgusting thieves. Alas, it seems my pleas fall on deaf ears. His attention turns to the west, dealing with the rebellious ingrates that seek to bite his merciful hand.” Leaning back in his chair, he contemplated with growing pleasure, “With a hundred horsemen and three times as many swordsmen, I’d whip that pass into obedience. We’d hang every outlaw, setting an example that would make those western scallywags quake in their boots.”

  Heiko doubted the old man had the wisdom to command such a host. A soft man nurtured on cakes and honey did not have the sharp wits nor strength of stomach to do what must be done. His head was full of fairy tales and great exploits that were pure fables. Looking at the man made him want to retch. How can one so weak have so close a claim to the throne? he wondered, questioning the good sense of the gods.

  “Sweet cousin, my shoulders sag with our responsibility. We must not let wickedness erode this goddess-fearing place,” the fattening man declared to his sworn sword. Heiko said nothing in turn. Bloodlines. Everything in the world was about bloodlines. Darius finished off another pastry. “I need to write a letter,” he announced with little fanfare. Darius’s attention focused on his most important need at the moment. When he stuffed his jowls to his liking, he turned his eyes back to his job, which Heiko wanted him to get on with. “Can you bring your finest scribe?” he asked the captain. “Only the best penmanship can meet the king’s eyes.”

  It was Martin’s turn to have a shadow across his face. He flinched. Darius did not catch it, but little escaped Heiko’s passing glance. Despite his radiating confidence, there was a reason he feared the King’s attention, as did many in the southern cities. With the empire’s seat resting on the northeast coast, the south could rule as they liked, so long as they paid their tribute and allowed the throne’s eyes to focus elsewhere. Butter up the passing peacekeeper, as many had Darius, and there was no cause to worry. Anything his Majesty might object to was invisible.

  “As to what may I ask,” the captain began.

  “My matters with his Majesty are not your concern,” Darius snapped, puffing out his wide chest. “Hurry along before I lose my patience.”

  If there was one thing Darius was good for, it was bringing out the rashness of a man’s soul. The captain’s eyes flicked from one man to the other. Heiko could see it in his eyes. He’s grown tired of his fa?ade. Eyeing the blade on the man’s hip, Heiko wondered how long it would take for the captain to draw. His armor gave a distinct advantage over his guests.

  Their host struggled to mask his intentions. “There’s no need for that,” Martin began, rising to his feet. “It would be most unwise to waste the King’s time.”

  “Have no fear,” Darius replied. “I will inform his Majesty of your great need. Your city needs an assisting hand.” For a second, Martin believed that the royal interference would be minimal. “If I ask it, His Highness will send one of his chosen lords, with his own host of soldiers, to guide your city toward his ideal.” That belief died in Martin’s gaze. “While you have fared better than the others, we need to act fast before the worst happens.”

  The captain said nothing for a long time. He glared at the table, shoulders trembling. In moments of desperation, men abandoned rationality, reaching for ends they had not the strength to grasp. His right hand slid across the table to his hilt. In one clean swing, he could take Darius’s head off. No matter how much that would delight Heiko, he needed the old windbag a little longer.

  “Still your sword arm,” Heiko barked, pushing off the wall. He stepped into the gap between them. If the man drew, he had to consider who to strike first. That indecision would be his demise. “Unless you wish to join the cripples at the city gates.”

  The captain’s lip curled in a sudden snarl. “Is that what you believe?” His eyes flashed at Darius. “Tell me. Who do you think you are?”

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  “I’m the King’s,” Darius began.

  “Silence,” Martin shouted, punching the table. The plate of pastries clattered. “This is my city. Do you believe you can take it away from me?” At this authoritative challenge, Darius laughed. “What’s so funny?”

  “Young man,” Darius asked in return. “Do you think you’re the first man to try this?”

  “What?”

  “Act as if you are in control.” Darius stood up from the table, turning his back to the foe. “All you southern heathens forget that it is by the King’s grace you live. This is his city. He sets whoever he wants over it and here, like some many others, needs new leadership. You are nothing but a disposable pawn.”

  Martin snapped. His hand flew to his sword. The blade sprung from its scabbard. A one-and-a-half hand blade. Falchion, a fine blade if put into the right hands. It glinted in the intermingled sun and candlelight. All he needed was to take a single step to decapitate Darius, but even a hair’s breadth meant the difference between life and death. Heiko wondered how many died by the falchion’s edge. Not enough to matter, he considered.

  Darius sighed, not even turning around. “So that is your decision?” He shook his head, walking on. “Heiko, I need to make water. Please, deal with this treasonous fool before I get back.” He strode out the doors. Before he vanished, he added, “And get me a scribe.” The doors closed. Martin and Heiko stood alone. Only one would leave the room.

  “Tell me,” the captain asked, turning his blade on his lone opponent. When their eyes met, Heiko found the hidden interest laid bare. Martin was beyond hiding his intentions. “What was it like to study underneath the great Fiore?”

  Heiko’s eyes flittered to the flowery brooch on his breast. It was red at the center with faint touches of pink around the edges. This was the highest achievement a warrior could receive. The sigil of Fiore, the greatest swordsman in the last five centuries. Only his pupils earned the right to bear the symbol, and everyone with a taste for clashing steel lusted for it.

  “He’s everything you’ve heard,” Heiko answered with a mocking grin. Little was known about his master. To most, he was more legend than man. Yet he existed. His students were the most sought-after fighters in the land. Some fought for the King. Others served those that defied the empire. Others still were free mercenaries. Fiore’s students were many, but no one knew where to find the source of these ever-vibrant flowers.

  The man’s eyes sparked with a mixture of anger and fascination. “Does he keep a collection of all the books he studied?” he breathed in tense, awed reverence.

  “They don’t call him the Scholar of Steel for nothing.” Martin’s gaze held on the brooch, longing for what was not his. “Do you believe you can take it?”

  A grin flashed across the captain’s face. “Believe? You stand unarmed. No matter how grand your tutelage, your master is a swordsman and you bear no blade.” Without warning, Martin struck. His falchion screamed for blood. The arch of the swing was perfect. If it struck, it would split Heiko’s face open, cleaving his chest. The battle would be over with a single stroke, but one trained by Fiore would not die by such an obvious attack.

  Backpedaling, Heiko stepped out of his foe’s range. The tip of the sword missed by half a foot. Martin grunted, forcing his swing into an upward stab. A quick sidestep kept his belly from being ripped open. Martin pushed his onslaught forward, swinging a flurry of attacks at the unarmed warrior. He switched from a single-hand style to a double, wielding his sheath in his once free hand.

  It made no difference what style he used. The captain could not hit Heiko. He dodged and weaved around the sword’s edge. He took their fight across the room. Martin’s sword ripped into the lion’s pelt, hacked the bed, burst open a feather pillow, and splintered the table. Not one strike came close to tasting Heiko’s flesh.

  At last, they came to the balcony. Their duel would be seen by the city. The people would see if Nurtia’s fate was in his favor or not. Martin pressed Heiko to the railing. His sword clashed with the stone, making the unarmed warrior flee in the direction of the awaiting sheath. “Die,” Martin shouted, swinging the sheath over his head.

  Deflecting the blow with an uppercut from his elbow, Heiko struck Martin’s wrist with a clenched fist. A cry burst from the man’s lips as his sheath clattered to the floor. He stepped back, swinging his sword wide, keeping his foe back. Heiko let a grin escape his stern warrior’s glare. Weapon or no, there was nothing this pitiful fighter could do to defeat him.

  Grabbing his sword with both hands, Martin leapt, aiming to slice his entire body in half. “Die,” he cried again. An ambitious attack, but futile. He missed as Heiko evaded. His blade was not even close, and the force of his blow left him off balance. He could not change the direction of his sword. Sparks flew in every direction when the edge struck the ground.

  Moving fast, Heiko brought his foot down on the blunt edge. Martin struggled to free his weapon, but the sword remained imprisoned underneath his sole. The captain’s struggling ended when Heiko’s fist met his face. Martin released his blade, reeling to the ground. Blood ran down from his broken nose, staining his armor. “It’s funny when you think about it,” Heiko mused, Martin’s blood on his knuckles. “You believe that if a man doesn’t flaunt a sword, he must be defenseless.”

  He shrugged his shoulders and a metallic clank rang out against the stone. Two chains slid out of his sleeves, resting in his palms. At their ends rested two steel balls. “You see, my master instructs all of his pupils in various styles of fighting with weapons you’ve never heard of. What that student chooses to master, now that is his business.”

  Whipping one steel weapon overhead, he slammed it onto his defeated foe’s unsuspecting palm. The captain’s hand cried out with the chorus of crushing bones and tearing flesh. Martin’s agonized scream was cut short as a chain wrapped around his throat. “Don’t fuss,” Heiko said. “I’ll be merciful. Since you didn’t kill a peacemaker, your treason is not the worst. Still punishable by death, I’m afraid.”

  Terror filled Martin’s eyes as he realized who he was dealing with. Heiko jerked on the chain, pulling him to his feet. Gagging, Martin pulled at the chain, struggling to get a breath of air. “Don’t worry, I won’t kill you yet. I have use for you,” Heiko assured. Dropping down, he whispered, “I heard you received a report on a strange wanderer. A killer. You did not seize him.”

  Jerking on the chain again, renewing Martin’s gagged groan, Heiko barked, “He killed two men within the last month. They were my spies.” His hands tightened on the chain. Martin gasped for breath. “You’re neither blind nor deaf. Everyone has their little connections throughout the world. So tell me.” He leaned in close to his prisoner. “Where is the cursed swordsman?”