The ducal household was in complete disarray, and this was exactly the sort of disorder that Terchin liked to take advantage of. In the resulting chaos of the court it was a simple matter for Terchin to take the gallery to another wing in search of a convenient exit.

  Escape was in his grasp. He didn’t know the exact form it would take. Maybe he would sneak out using a servants’ passage, conceal himself in an outgoing wagon, or find a disguise and stride out in broad daylight. Or maybe he would discover a decent hiding place (a pile of hay in the stables, an unfrequented storeroom?) and wait until nightfall to slip away unseen, or scavenge some rope and climb out a window or over and down the outer wall. There were numerous possibilities – he was confident he would find something. One thing he did find was an unoccupied guard room, from which he was able to filch a sword from a weapons rack. Holding a sword in his hands again lifted his mood a great deal, even if it was only a standard-issue blade.

  He was almost in buoyant spirits as he rounded a corner and spotted the man. Then thoughts of escape were dispersed and replaced with a burning desire for vengeance.

  “You!” It was the dealer he had met in the gaming house back in Eskemar before everything went wrong – who was directly responsible for abducting his son and then setting up an ambush that killed most of his men. Tenzen Twoside. “You,” he growled. Rage burned within him. His knuckles turned white as he tightened the grip on his sword’s hilt.

  Tenzen turned to confront the one who addressed him. As recognition dawned his face took on an expression of mild interest. Far from feeling threatened, the man evinced a lack of concern that Terchin found infuriating.

  “Me?” replied Tenzen with mock humility, placing a hand over his heart in an exaggerated gesture. “I am gratified that you remember me. In a way, I’m glad you survived the little reception I arranged for you. It should come down to this. You should not die at the hands of giants or some anonymous guard but at my hands. Yes, this will be most fitting,” he concluded with a sneer as he unsheathed his sword.

  “You’re awfully confident,” Terchin observed, adopting a stance more conducive to combat.

  “I selected your son because of you. I know all about your various exploits as a master rogue over the years. I heard the tales as a young man. You have an enviable record, a certain renown. But you’re past your prime now. The crown, shall we say, needs to be passed on to someone more worthy. And though it is only a metaphorical crown rather than a real one, it will nonetheless go to me rather than your son.”

  Terchin had heard enough. “You’re a dead man. You just don’t know it yet.”

  Tenzen barked a derisive laugh. “Maybe if you had your enchanted sword to help balance the scales that would be the case, but you’re outmatched here. Allow me to demonstrate.” And with nary a pause he struck out with his own sword while his other hand produced a parrying dagger from his tunic.

  Terchin dodged to evade the attack and reached out to seize a nearby heavy curtain with his off hand. He flung it outward, hoping that Tenzen’s sword might get entangled in its thick folds but the man withdrew it. Still, it gave him a moment of cover. The fight was then joined in earnest.

  Terchin guessed that Tenzen would fight in the style of a typical urban bravo, and he was not off the mark. But as the duel progressed he could spot other signs that hinted at formal training at a fencing school: tight flourishes and quick recoveries, wheeling maneuvers with the blade that were disorienting to the untrained eye, crisply executed footwork, the sort of well-practiced tactics that swaggering young noblemen were taught and drilled in until their execution became second nature.

  Soon Terchin was breathing heavily, hard put to counter his adversary’s skill. Matching him blow for blow was going to quickly tire him out. After the privation of his confinement he was not at his best and was sustained primarily by anger. But wrath was a poor substitute for energy and proper conditioning.

  Then in the blink of an eye there was a feint that induced Terchin to overcommit, leaving him vulnerable for a brief moment. That was enough; Tenzen’s sword breached his defenses. A stroke first sliced across his unprotected abdomen. It was a light wound, sparing his entrails – the blade did not cut deeply. But it was followed up by a decisive thrust of Tenzen’s dagger. This sank into his side. Terchin twisted so that it was unable to penetrate him to the hilt. Still, it was a grievous wound.

  In retaliation Terchin managed to smash Tenzen’s exposed wrist with the guard of his borrowed sword, causing the bloodied dagger to clatter to the floor. Clutching his side, Terchin conducted a fighting retreat down the corridor. Belatedly he realized that he maybe had bitten off more than he could chew. Now he was only concerned with defending himself. Cursing his rashness, he restricted the movements of his blade to parrying while he desperately tried to devise a way to either use something near at hand to his advantage or extricate himself from this encounter entirely and live to fight another day.

  As he slowly gave ground down the corridor he was dimly aware that behind him were stairs leading down to a small enclosed courtyard. Maintaining awareness of one’s own surroundings was always of vital importance during close-quarters combat but he couldn’t spare any sideways glances. Tenzen was too quick and required his full attention. Consequently, he reached the head of the stairs sooner than he expected. Misjudging his footing, his left foot met air when it went past the top step. In dread and desperation, he attempted to grab one of Tenzen’s arms. He was willing to risk impalement to steady himself – or drag his opponent down with him, but his attempt at grappling failed.

  Terchin lost his balance and tumbled down the stairs. Pitiless edges of stone hammered him from every angle. In a futile effort to brace himself and arrest his fall he released the grip on his sword, which followed him down in a clatter. Then he was lying in a bruised, bleeding heap at the bottom of the stairs. His sword had skittered across the stone pavers, coming to rest a few paces away. Orienting himself, he looked up to see where his foe was in relation to him, half-expecting to be immediately pounced upon.

  Tenzen descended the stairs with swaggering, deliberately slow steps. About halfway down he halted.

  “You don’t have your special sword. You don’t have your armor. You are bereft of all your magic potions and enchanted items. Your bag of tricks is empty. Without all these aids you are helpless.” And with these last words he took something out of his pocket and threw it down onto the step below him.

  There was the tell-tale clink of shattered glass and a flash of light, then an immediate “boom” accompanied by a dense cloud of purple smoke. Terchin knew that Tenzen had smashed a glass vial, setting off a smoke bomb. This could only mean one thing...misdirection.

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  Terchin cursed the man; he was just showing off now, wanting to finish off his adversary in a grand flourish. He could picture Tenzen leaping down the remainder of the stairs through the haze and materializing directly in front of him, poised to land the killing blow. Terchin rolled hard to one side and scrambled to his feet, ignoring the new pain in his left knee and ankle. He got on the other side of the newel post at the end of the railing but then almost collapsed in pain, barely managing to prop himself up against a stone planter. There was little hope for him now. He had thoughts of flinging himself at Tenzen, tackling him to the ground and throttling him. If only he could spot him before he himself was spotted...

  It was not to be. He detected the slightest intimation of movement behind him just before a kick hit him squarely in the back. He was forced back to the ground. Tenzen must have vaulted over the side of the railing instead. Groaning in equal parts pain and frustration, he flipped onto his back. At least he could look death in the face. He resolved to go out defiantly, screaming and swearing until his final moment.

  Through a swirling haze Tenzen looked down at him. His face exuded scorn. With leisurely grace he lowered his sword so that it pointed at Terchin’s heart. He affected carelessness, but Terchin noticed he kept the point just out of arm’s reach.

  Tenzen smirked at him. “You’re out of time and out of options, Triumvir of Eskemar. You’re all used up and you’ve got nothing.” And though he had sworn he wouldn’t when confronted with his end, Terchin involuntarily closed his eyes.

  A gasp of pain made him open them again. Tenzen’s face was contorted in shock and he arched his back as if he had lost control of his spine. Behind him stood another, holding a dagger that had been thrust into his back.

  “Wrong – he’s got me!” the arrival cried. And then the figure gave the dagger a forceful wrench, causing Tenzen to writhe in agony. The smoke dissipated, revealing details and features.

  It was Oreus.

  Terchin was too stunned to react. He simply stared as Oreus pulled the large knife out of Tenzen’s back and punched it in again. And again. And again. The swift succession of blows resulted in a veritable fountain of blood. Tenzen turned around but was incapable of more. His eyes opened wide, surprise etched on his countenance as he recognized the youth he had previously victimized. He sank to his knees, one hand clapped to a gushing wound near the edge of a shoulder blade, the other on the floor. Then he hit the ground heavily and lay still.

  Terchin was just as astonished as his enemy had been.

  Oreus extended a hand to help his father up.

  “What are you doing here?” Terchin demanded at last. He was coming out of a daze and now he had the presence of mind to wax indignant. He took the proffered assistance and got to his feet, wincing from his injuries. “Do you think I went through all this trouble to find you and rescue you only for you to turn around and put yourself in harm’s way?”

  “And do you think I was going to let the duke take my father?” Oreus retorted.

  Terchin sighed. “I guess you are you’re father’s son,” he conceded. “Still –“

  “We can discuss all that later. Can you make it over to that alcove?”

  Terchin nodded and with his son’s aid he managed to hobble over to the seclusion offered by the shadowy recess on the far side of the courtyard. Then Oreus went back to the stairs and seizing Tenzen’s body by the ankles, dragged him out of sight. After he took Tenzen’s sword and retrieved the one Terchin had dropped he jogged back to the alcove.

  “Good boy,” thought Terchin approvingly, “he doesn’t have to be reminded to hide his corpses."

  Oreus took out a flask and unstoppered it. He shoved it into Terchin’s hands.

  “Drink this. It’s a healing draft that Deena brewed for you. She figured if you were still alive you would be in rough shape. This should fix most of your injuries.”

  Terchin eagerly gulped down the bitter concoction. He soon felt a wave of euphoria as healing vitality expunged his hurts. He checked himself – he still felt incredibly sore but was no longer bleeding; his wounds had closed. And he could put his weight on his leg again.

  “Most potent,” he said in satisfaction. “Now - fill me in. How did you gain entry to the fortress?”

  “Kestrom and Deena arranged everything. We came in with a throng of revelers around noon. The duke declared a holiday to celebrate the return of his son and he opened the gates. So we strolled in, clear as day. But then we split up. We figured it would be easier to find you that way, and easier to pass undetected if we were separate rather than a group.”

  Terchin mulled this over. He suspected other motives were responsible for that decision. Deena and Kestrom wanted the duke dead above all else but knew that rescuing him would be the main priority of his son. He frowned in displeasure. Turning his teenage son loose by himself in the fortified enclave of an enemy was the height of irresponsibility. On the other hand, they had already helped his son escape and couldn’t reasonably be expected to aid him any further. He didn’t like how events had played out but it definitely could have been worse. And still could be.

  “And how did you find me?” Terchin asked.

  “I followed the sound of mayhem to its source.”

  “Heh.”

  “How did you escape lockup, father?” Oreus had an expectant light in his eyes. It reminded Terchin of when the lad was a shaver, coaxing him to relate tales of his adventuring exploits. He could tell Oreus was anticipating some impressive act of derring-do. Terchin was reluctant to disabuse his son’s notions of paternal ingenuity and heroism, but he was mindful that he still was under a compulsion to tell the truth.

  “I had a little help. The duke’s daughter actually released me, or I still would be rotting in a cell.”

  “Whoa...so you convinced her to go against her own father’s wishes?” Terchin wryly noted the lad was somehow still in awe. “Was she comely?”

  “Never mind that! We have to get out of here and figure out what our next step is going to be.”

  Terchin wondered if they could get out in the same manner that Oreus got in - by sauntering unaccosted out the main gate. The longer they waited the less chance their attempt would be successful. The duke might currently be distracted, but the alarm could be raised at any minute. Terchin did not think that Issret’s attempt to fake his death was still viable; an important man had now been killed. That could be blamed on Deena and Kestrom if their presence became known, but their appearance muddied the water a great deal. Tolthurdine would suspect all manner of things, some of them true. He was doubtless a suspicious man and might distrust even his own daughter. He and Oreus could be discovered any moment.

  And what if they made good their escape from the fortress despite being discovered? Tolthurdine would anticipate that they would head to Eskemar. They might be pursued all the way back into the city. Once they got inside they should be safe enough....unless the duke was the type to employ assassins. Even if they remained completely undetected, news of Terchin’s return would eventually make its way to the duke’s ear. Tolthurdine certainly seemed like the type to hold a grudge. Terchin did not look forward to years of looking over his shoulder or worrying if his son was safe from a knife in the dark or a poisoned meal. Despite what he had said to Issret earlier, further reflection and the changed circumstances now led him to a different decision. No, he could not afford to leave Duke Tolthurdine alive. But was Terchin the one who would have to do the deed? He could hire his own assassin, of course. Money was no issue, but success can never be guaranteed. What would happen if the assassin failed?

  Why not just invade? The abduction of Oreus qualified as an act of war against Eskemar, did it not? Terchin realized he still wasn’t thinking like the ruler that he was; perhaps he should start. He could marshal an army and march it into the duchy. A proper war was justified. On the other hand, it would draw the notice of the imperial court. It could escalate.

  Terchin realized he didn’t even know if Stedemark had allies. Victory was hardly assured. It was entirely possible that Eskemar might lose such a conflict, and some would welcome the chance to strip away some of Eskemar’s privileges and see the proud city humbled.

  Reluctantly he came to the conclusion that he should aid Deena and Kestrom however he could. They probably had already formulated a plan to achieve Tolthurdine’s death. A better opportunity to neutralize his enemy would probably never present itself. He would just have to keep his son close to him at all times. He didn’t know the specifics of how his aim would be accomplished. But this did not worry him; he had no issue resorting to improvisation.