Twilight Falling by Kemp Paul S

the manse proper, they could teleport out.
    Almor sneered.
    But I’ll find you later, Cale silently promised. This isn’t over.
    At that, Almor gave an absent nod and replied, “I’ll look forward to that, Mister Cale.”
    That almost stopped Cale in his tracks. Could Almor read his mind also?
    Nine Hells!
    “Who are you?” he asked.
    She made no reply, only smiled.
    “Let’s go,” she said to her team.
    Derg reached for the large main door—
    —and it flew open, smashing into Derg and knocking him back a step. Three house guards, no doubt one of the alerted grounds patrols, poured through, blades bare. Upon seeing what appeared to be three of their comrades holding another hostage and standing over the two dead guards at the door, they stopped in surprise—
    “D-Derg?” one of them said, haltingly.
    Before he could say any more, before Cale could shout a warning, Halthor stepped forward and stabbed the speaker through the chest. He went down immediately, bleeding and gasping. The two others bounded backward toward the doorway, confused, weapons held in uncertain hands.
    “Bastard,” cried Cale. He whipped one of his throwing daggers free from its belt sheath, and with a flick of his wrist, hurled it underhand at Halthor. It tore a gash along the side of his throat. Blood fountained to the floor. Halthor staggered, dropped his blade, and clutched at the slash with his empty sword hand.
    At the same moment, Derg leaped over the dying guard and unleashed a powerful overhand slash with his falchion at the smaller of the two remaining guardsmen. The house guard tried to parry with his shield, but too slow. Derg’s heavy blade split the links of his coif and opened his skull. His eyes went white and he started to fall.
    Cale drew another dagger, but before he could throw, before the small house guard had even hit the ground, Derg jerked free his blade, spun three hundred sixty degrees, and slashed low at the last guard. It took him below the knee, nearly severed his calf, and swept him from his feet. A stab through the chest finished him. The whole combat had taken the space of two breaths.
    Halthor, still bleeding from his throat, shot Cale a glare. Cale took a step toward him, blade ready. He would gut the man.
    Unarmed, Halthor snarled and advanced, raising the sphere above his head as though he meant to bludgeon Cale with it.
    “Stop!” ordered Almor. She threatened the boy with the blade. “There’s five dead here already, Cale! You want another? I’ll kill him. I promise you. Dolgan! Put that down.”
    With effort, Cale stopped his own advance, but didn’t lower his blade. Halthor—Dolgan, Cale corrected—also stopped. The big man lowered the sphere. Blood poured from his throat. He seemed unconcerned.
    Cale struggled to keep his anger under control. Five men lay dead at his feet. He ought to kill every one of these sons of whores. But he could not simply sacrifice Ren, and he could not get to Almor before she could slit Ren’s throat. So he fought down his instincts and did nothing. They would let Ren go when they got outside. It was the sphere they wanted.
    Halthor continued to stare hate at him while stanching his wound with a fat hand. Surprisingly, the bleeding stopped. Halthor grinned. Cale returned a stare, promised with his eyes that their next combat would be fatal. Cale knew his real name—Dolgan. He would not forget it.
    “As I was saying, Mister Cale,” Almor said. “We’ll be leaving now.”
    She glanced at the five corpses on the floor and again somehow twisted a warrior’s face into a feminine smile. Cale wondered what her real name was. He wouldn’t have forgotten that either.
    “You’ve been most hospitable,” said Halthor, then he spat on the body of one of the guards. “Thank you.”
    “Whoreson,” Ren said.
    “Shut up,” Almor ordered.
    It was all Cale could do not to attack. Everything in him screamed for him to gut Halthor, to slit Almor’s throat and tear her head