This story is copyright of Gary Allen and is reprinted in Gateway Monthly by kind permission of the author

In spite of the lashing rain, even at this late hour, there were still a few people braving the cobbled streets of Malcarerre. The hapless souls hurried through the wet and cold, no doubt also on errands which warranted being out on such a bitter night. For all the apparent innocence of the activity in the street ahead, Modred knew better than to relax his guard. Years as a sword for hire had taught him appearances could be deceiving. His caution was doubly warranted in the case of his current patron. Modred motioned for his charge to wait in the shadows, while he scrutinized the way ahead. Elm Tree Pocket was at the edge of a fashionable quarter of the city, full of the residences of commoners aspiring to affluence, fine shops and clean taverns. Yet, any sense of safety these tidy streets offered was illusionary. Someone powerful was stalking Elerre – a shadowy force with sufficient resources to send determined men in numbers. One arrow shot or thrown dagger from the dark would be all it would take to end her life and his lucrative employment. No amount of skill with the sword would save his patron from such an attack. The wiry warrior set aside his mounting disquiet with a shake of his shaggy head. Cunning and decisive action would win the day, not quivering with fear in the gutter. Satisfied there were no immediate threats, Modred gestured for the nervous lady to join him. Wrapped in her expensive cloak, Elerre stepped out into the wind and rain. The face that peeked out from under the bell hood was pinched and drawn, but the lady still managed a brilliant smile for Modred.

Without a word the wiry warrior escorted Elerre along the slippery street. Though his weatherworn façade betrayed nothing of his feelings, Modred realized he was becoming fond of his charge.

“This is a bad idea,” Modred snarled in a tone made belligerent by the knowledge he was not as remorseless and hardened as he thought.

She cocked her head, with a pursed smile as she observed in pear-shaped tones, “This was your idea.” The scruffy warrior scowled, but did not answer as he led them on through the rain.

A half-caste wildblood, born to the daughter of a pious Kral merchant, Modred grew up knowing very little of kindness and affection. The rugged western frontier of Ilesh was a harsh enough cradle, but for an unwanted bastard son of a barbarian, it was nothing short of cruel. So Modred had run away as soon as he was old enough. For almost a decade he wandered the High King’s highways, heading ever eastward. Though he was not a man disposed to self-reflection, Modred knew his long journey had been a pointless attempt to escape his painful past. Battle after battle in the employ of minor nobles and rich merchants had earned him more scars than wealth, and no peace. As a sword for hire, he was supposed to have little need for simple human kindness, but Elerre was different somehow.

* * *

Wrapped within the deep folds of her cloak and the glamour that concealed her true nature, Elerre allowed her scruffy protector to guide her along the gloomy streets of Malcarerre. From within the depths of her hood she watched Modred navigate their way unmarked through the city. Humans were weak and flighty things, beneath even her contempt, but Elerre realized she felt guilty for pulling Modred into her dangerous world. Her escort knew nothing of her true nature, nor the mission entrusted to her by the Council. She had descended from the mountain holds of her people, assumed the appearance of a plodding human, and charmed her way into Count Marusala’s household – all to steal the ancient amulet from the noble’s treasury. Few humans knew of the Nolodaer, so no one guessed the truth about her strange ways. Away from the western frontier the Nolodaer were considered no more than a fable. Not even the Count knew the bloody history of the amulet, much less its supernatural properties or value to Elerre’s people. Using the Gift and her body, Elerre ensorcelled the fool of an Ileshian Count until he would deny her nothing. Unfortunately, it seemed since her hasty departure he had recovered something of his wits, because Count Marusala’s lackeys were dogging her every step westward. Elerre suspected his wounded pride as much as the lost heirloom was as much at the root of his thirst to see her cowed and returned to him, but whatever his motivation, she could not lose the amulet or fail in her mission. The powerful Council did not tolerate disciples who failed. Death at the hands of human thugs would be preferable to the punishment the Council would mete out if she returned empty-handed.

* * *

When they rounded the bend into the final street, Elerre stopped short with a gasp. Hanging on the corner within the steel cage of a gibbet, was the grizzly remains of a woman. The bloated body showed signs of torture and was covered in rotting vegetable matter. Though he could not read, Modred knew well enough the meaning of the mark on the sign nailed to the post – witchcraft. Whilst the lord of Malcarerre was no doubt Ileshian, it seemed he shared the Kral belief in dark powers. The wiry warrior made the sign for protection against the evil eye as he hurried a white-faced Elerre past the gibbet. It was a surprise to learn dabbling in magick was not just the province of those who lived on the wild frontier or the barbarian folk. Even here, in the settled heart of Ilesh, there were those that trifled with dark forces. The realization was doubly troubling, though Modred could not place why. Rather than pondering his confusion while standing out in the rain, the warrior hurried them towards the tavern. The rain was intensifying, swallowing the feeble light from the lanterns and soaking them both to the skin. Elerre did not utter one complaint as she followed her protector up the stairs to the inn. For the umpteenth time Modred reflected to himself that Elerre was nothing like any Ileshian lady he had met before.

At first glance, Elerre was unremarkable – a pretty and slender blonde, with features that were classically Ileshian. Yet there was something about the direct way her blue eyes held you with their piercing gaze. There was a surprising strength and depth to the way she regarded the world, which did not fit the mould of a typical cultured lady. She had a little less meat on her bones than the women who generally caught Modred’s eye, but Elerre was graceful and fit. In fact, he was more than a little taken with her. In truth, Modred knew almost nothing about his charge. Elerre had money enough to hire a personal bodyguard, but had no personal attendants. She could read and was clearly educated – two attributes unusual amongst even noblewomen. Yet she wore neither a noble signet nor chain. Her diction hinted of breeding, but her accent was strange. Most surprising for a woman of apparent wealth, she was not afraid of getting her hands dirty. In short, she was a mystery.

“Let me go in first,” Modred ordered when they reached the inn’s stoop. She accepted this with a nod, but palmed a dirk. Modred eyed the grim-faced woman and flashing blade a moment, before opening the door. He knew she was scared, but would not back away from this dangerous course. At first this job had seen remarkably easy – protect the honor of a woman traveling alone. It was obvious she was unnerved, talking of danger, but at the time, Modred dismissed her words as the understandable worries of an unaccompanied lady. The purse of Duckettes she had paid him, as an advance, was all the mercenary needed to know. That was a mere two weeks ago, though it felt more like months. In Calestmonn they were attacked twice, once on the road, and again here in Malcarerre. The gash to his right thigh was his reward for the second exchange. He was still favoring the leg, and he was exhausted, but too pigheaded to give up. Each time the attackers had been thugs, the kind of lawless men you encountered too often – even here in the civilized East. Yet Modred was not fooled. The attacks had been single-minded, and not apparently motivated by greed or lust. There was more going on here than met the eye. As a man who lived pretty much at the edge of the law, he had resources of his own. A little investigation confirmed someone was putting a fair amount of coin around to be kept informed of Elerre’s movements. It seemed his charge was the focus of a hunt, but Elerre was remaining tightlipped about what she knew of her enemy. Modred suspected the pretty blonde knew more than she was saying. No matter, let her have her secrets because she was paying well. Then there was the way she would smile at him sometimes.

* * *

Elerre wrinkled her nose at the smell. The air within the common room was heavy with the stink of stale drink and too many humans in an enclosed place. How she yearned for the high wooded pastures and brooks of home. Misinterpreting her expression, Modred gave her elbow an encourage squeeze as he shepherded her through the drinking throng. Whatever she thought of humans in general, this one was reliable. A few well planted suggestions within his unconsciousness and he had proven a stalwart defender. The Nolodaer sorceress felt a surprising stab of guilt. After the last attack, she had prompted Modred to suggest this dangerous ruse. They needed to bring the Count out into the open. She would rent an apartment, buy furniture and hire staff. After apparently discharging Modred’s services, she would settle in Malcarerre. The plan was to hire a couple of lasses capable of looking after themselves in a scrap. From a discrete distance Modred would keep them all under close watch. Hopefully, if the Count took the bait and believed her to be unprotected, he would make a personal attack. If all went to plan, Modred would bring an end to the Count and his annoying pursuit. The Nolodaer’s mouth tightened – if things went to plan. It was not a foolproof plan, and was more than a little dangerous. She should feel nothing for humans, but she did fear for Modred. She scowled to herself – no she was worried he was not up to the task. She did not care if he lived or died, or did she?

* * *

Now that the plan was in motion, Modred was having serious second thoughts. Quiet inquiries revealed two young women who should fit the bill, but he was nervous entrusting Elerre’s safety in their hands. In an attack, they might have to defend her for several moments until he could intercede. The idea of entrusting Elerre’s life to lasses made him very uncomfortable. Perhaps it would be better to just keep moving and try to outpace the strange pursuit.

“Let’s at least meet them,” Elerre suggested in a small voice, seeming to read the renewed doubt on his stubbled face. Modred was about to disagree and order her back out, when Elerre flashed one of her brilliant smiles his way. The warrior found himself falling into her crystal stare. Thinking was something he found difficult at the best of times, but captured by her entrancing stare, it became impossible. Blinking in confusion, the warrior frowned down at his slender charge. Elerre bit her lip, as she frowned up at him. To his surprise, there was indecision and regret marring her pretty face, but Modred did not understand why. She seemed about to say something, but instead motioned that they should carry on. Modred agreed with a slow nod, before escorting the lady through the busy common room.

Modred’s doubts began to howl as he scrutinized the two young women sitting on the other side of the cubicle. They were much younger than he had supposed, and far too petite to slow down any concerted attack. The delicate raven-haired girls were almost swallowed by their padded couches as they sat sipping wine in the shadowy common room. While Elerre conferred with the two lasses, Modred chewed on his mounting disquiet. Though an incessant voice seemed to argue against his doubts, the mixed-blood warrior would not be dissuaded. With a shake of his shaggy dark red hair, Modred shoved backward from the table.

“We thank you for your trouble, but there’s no point continuing this a moment longer,” the warrior pronounced. The closer of the two women turned to eye the sour-faced warrior with a cold expression. If standing, she would scarcely reach his shoulder, and seated the lass looked tiny compared to Modred’s lanky height.

“Oh, and why’s that?” she asked with a youthful toss of her raven ponytail.

“Yes, I’d say Neri and I deserve an explanation,” the other lass observed with an arched eyebrow. Modred snorted at them. He had no intention of explaining himself to a pair of pouting young women, and would not place the safety of his charge in their hands.

When the petite pair crossed their arms and continued to eye him, Modred snorted, “Let’s just say, I don’t think you’re up to job, and leave it at that.” With a shake of his head, the wiry warrior grabbed his cloak and was about to motion for Elerre to get up, when he felt something sharp against his groin. Looking down, he paled when he saw his own sword held against the crouch of his bracae. Modred had not even felt his sword being drawn, much less seen Neri move against him. Sitting there with a demure expression, Neri still looked for all the world like nothing more than a pouting young lass, but Modred shuddered when he saw the cold calculation in her hazel eyes. He had no doubt she would slit him open, without a moment’s remorse. 𠇌lever,” the warrior hissed, aware his life and manhood were at the mercy of this mere slip of a girl.

“I think he gets your point,” Elerre observed, unable to completely conceal her amused smirk. “You’re both hired.”

The apartment Elerre rented was in a quiet part of the city. Tucked amongst narrow streets, lined with old houses of crumbling stone and ivy. In this sleepy neighborhood the arrival of a thirty-something attractive and well-spoken lady, attended by two handmaidens, was something of an event. That was exactly what they had intended. Though the folk of the East were far more cosmopolitan than their frontier cousins, the notion of three single women alone in a house was scandalous. No doubt the mysterious lady and her escorts would be the talk of the surrounding marketplaces. Though it took some doing, Modred managed to rent a room that overlooked Elerre’s new home without drawing attention to himself. The locals would be no less interested in a warrior of obviously mixed birth, trying to blend into their community. However, some well-placed coins, and a little care, ensured Modred was far less interesting than Elerre.

Though three days passed without incident, the canny warrior could not shake the certainty his charge was being stalked. Their ruse was working, but what were they about to lure out of cover?

Modred frowned across the gloomy street, long with shadows from the setting sun, “What am I doing?” The truth was, the more he thought about his actions during the last few weeks, the less it made any sense. When it became obvious that Elerre was the target of powerful forces, why hadn’t he cut his losses and left her to her fate? This kind of foolish heroics were out of character for him – even for a pretty smile. At the thought his patron’s brilliant smile, Modred froze. How often had he been about to leave, or disagree with one of Elerre’s decisions, only to give in after one of her infernal smiles? Had this plan really been his idea? The Kral were a superstitious folk. The fear of ghosts, shades, spiritfolk and the fey very much part of the Kral psyche. His father’s people – the Cûn – lived their lives believing the spirit world was as real as any other. Armed with these worldviews he should have realized what was happening to him. Now that he thought about it, the truth was obvious. His employer was a witch and had ensorcelled him, sure enough. “I’ll be your thrall no longer, witch,” he hissed across the street to Elerre’s apartment. Only then did he see the three men stalking across the street. Though he could not say why, Modred knew one of these men was the master of the attacks on Elerre. There was no sign they were armed, but Modred could taste the danger. Even as he watched the cloaked trio stop at Elerre’s door, Modred knew he should just slip out the back and escape to the city gate. Instead, he snatched up his sword, ready to defend Elerre. She might be a witch, but she was his witch.

As he rushed out of his own building, Modred saw that there were another two cloaked men climbing onto the roof of the building where Elerre was staying. One of the three men out the front gave a night lark’s call, and was answered from both the roof and the building’s rear. There were three lots of men about to move on Elerre, with only Modred and two petite lasses to answer this attack. Though it went against every fiber in his being, the shaggy warrior decided to call upon the banes of his existence. Though it went against his better judgment, he knew it was the only way to save his charge.

“The Watch, call the Watch!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, no doubt terrifying Elerre’s neighbors. “Murder!” The shout was at one was taken up from the other houses. Though one of the three men at the door turned to meet him, the other two kicked their way inside. With the alarm raised, it seemed subterfuge was no longer necessary. Modred just hoped Malcarerre’s City Watch was proficient. Further worries were silenced when the cloaked assailant attacked. There was mail under the cloak of Modred’s opponent, and his long sword looked well cared for. This man was no drunken thug, and his fighting stance was one of a trained warrior. After the first exchange of blows, Modred knew he was fighting for his life. Thrust and parry, counterstrike and block, the two men fought their way across the cobbled street. Though Modred was sure he could defend himself until the City Watch arrived, he was painfully aware of Elerre inside under the protection of only two girls. He risked overextending himself with a hasty strike and was rewarded with a deep cut to his left arm. Rather than retreat he strove on, stepping inside his surprised opponent’s reach. With a snarl the shaggy-haired warrior slashed the other man’s face. Before his opponent fell, Modred ran on to Elerre’s building. He would have liked to search the body for clues to the identity of the attackers, and to look for valuables, but a high-pitched scream from inside sent him running in through the smashed door.

Someone had extinguished the torches in the sconces along the hall, plunging the aging apartment block into darkness. Modred squinted in the gloom as he negotiated first the corridor and then a set of steep stairs. A heavy thump and shout from above propelled him upward at a run. When the sweating warrior turned onto the floor where Elerre’s apartment was located he came face to face with another cloaked and armed man. Modred paled when he got a look at this one’s blazon – he was facing a knight in the service of a Ducal household.

“Drop that sword!” the Guardsmen snarled, shoving Modred backward and raising his own weapon until the sword rest against the half-caste’s chest. The shaggy-haired warrior dropped his sword with a curse. Satisfied for the moment, the Guardsmen glanced with a worried expression down the hall in the direction of Elerre’s apartment.

“Modred!” came Elerre’s alarmed cry. With a snarl the lanky warrior smashed the knight’s sword aside and charged. He bowled into the surprised Guardsmen’s legs, sending him crashing to the ground. Modred tried to scramble past, but the swearing knight grabbed him by the throat. The snarling Guardsmen started to crush the life out of Modred. Though he struggled and clawed at his assailant’s hand, Modred could not break the knight’s iron grip. As the corridor began to turn dim, the gasping warrior’s hand settled upon the hilt of the knight’s short sword. “Modred!” Elerre cried again. With a wrench, the lanky warrior pulled the knight’s short sword free of its scabbard. The Guardsmen’s eyes opened wide, and he started to say something, but Modred pounded the weapon into the pinned knight’s gut. Shaken and gasping, Modred lurched away down the corridor – the Guardsmen gurgling out his last breath behind him.

The inside of the apartment was a mess, furniture overturned, clothes and ornaments smashed and scattered everywhere. Modred turned within the antechamber, gaping at the chaos.

“Elerre!” he shouted, his panic rising. Another knight came rushing from one of the open doors, shouting something unintelligible. His gaze settling upon Modred, the Guardsmen issued a guttural cry and lifted his broadsword. While Modred backed up over the debris, trying to keep his footing, a shadow streaked between the two men. To Modred’s surprise, it was Neri. The petite lass held two long knives in her slender hands, the blades resting against her forearms. The sight of the maid in her long green satin gown, staring down the snarling knight, stopped Modred in his tracks. One look at the Guardsmen’s bloodthirsty expression and Modred knew this noble would have no compunctions about killing a slip of a girl. So much for the chivalry and honor of the nobleborn.

“Watch out, Neri,” Modred warned. The petite lass turned and started to say something, but the knight lunged at her. Modred watched in horror as the heavy sword thrust toward Neri’s back. At the last moment she twisted out of the way. She spun, almost too fast for the eye to follow. Neri’s whistling blades caught her assailant across the throat – first one and then the other. Stunned, Modred gaped at the choking knight, who clutched at his slashed throat. Neri spun again, throwing the knight backward with a spray of blood. Through the mere seconds of the attack, Neri did not utter a single sound. The effort of downing a knight failed to raise even a sweat from the petite girl. She surveyed her surrounds with a cold expression, arms outstretched in a fighting stance, blood dripping from the poised knives. There was a splash of her victim’s blood across her bodice, and another on her forehead.

She flashed a dark look Modred’s way, “If you want to live, get out of here now.” He started to answer, to demand an explanation, but she dropped to the ground and swept out his legs with a kick. Stunned and gasping, Modred looked up from the ground into the face of an angelic killer. “Leave now, or never leave.”

Modred knew he should have fled right then – tucked his tail between his legs and ran for his life. Witchcraft and young women who fought like daemons, it was reason enough to flee. Instead, as soon as Neri flipped back to her feet and rushed back through the door, he dusted himself off and followed. The thought of Elerre’s fate kept him from running away. Deserting his pretty patron was out of the question. He knew she had ensorcelled him, but something would not let him go. Perhaps it was stubborn pride, or was it something more? If nothing else, his curiosity would not let him leave – he had to know what was going on here.

It was the silence that surprised Modred when he first entered Elerre’s bedchamber. The room was even more of a chaotic mess than the rest of the apartment. The cozy bed was on its side, and the coverlet lying in shreds, debris still floating on the air. Two more knights were sprawled upon the ground, lying dead in puddles of their own blood. Elerre was crouched in the corner – quivering hand extended toward a man poised just on the other side of the upturned bed. To Modred’s surprise, he saw this man was a senior noble – a Count. The muscles of the Ileshian noble’s arms were corded, as though the snarling man was in the process of vaulting over the bed. Yet he seemed locked in place by some invisible hand. There were beads of sweat on Elerre’s forehead, as she muttered something Modred could not catch. The Count was shaking with strain, apparently fighting to break free of the magick which had him held in place.

The lanky warrior made a hurried sign for protection against the evil eye, “What by the gods?” Before he could say another word, or make a move, a blade was held up under his unshaven chin. Neri stepped from the shadows behind the door.

“Not the gods,” Farenne, Neri’s partner observed from the other side of the door. 𠇊t least not our gods.” The wicked tiny blade still in place, Neri lent in toward Modred, until her exquisite lips were at his ear, and her chest pressed against his arm.

An icy sneer turned her pretty face, “I warned you.”

“Why do you interfere?” Farenne asked, motioning to where the Count and Elerre were locked in their bizarre struggle. The knife at his throat drawing a trickle of blood, Modred gasped with pain, but considered the question. Why was he still here?

“I am her protector,” he answered at last, his voice tight. Farenne pondered his response, a small frown marring her pretty face. It seemed impossible this petite lass was a killer, but he had seen Neri make short work of a battle-trained knight. There was also no denying the splatters of blood that covered Farenne’s arms and dress.

She shook her head, “Surely, you must know you were ensorcelled?” Modred looked across the space to where Elerre was crouched. With a slight turn of her head, his patron met his confused stare with a look of naked entreaty.

“I do,” he said with a shrug, still meeting his charge’s frightened stare.

Moving to join Modred and Neri, Farenne hissed, “I could break her hold over you right now.”

“It wouldn’t make any difference,” Modred replied as he stared into Elerre’s eyes. Staring back down the long bleak road of his life, the half-caste warrior realized this was his last chance to prove himself worthy of something better. “I am her protector still.”

The slight smile turned Farenne’s mouth, “How ironic.” The comment struck Modred as strange, but he broke eye contact with Elerre to eye Neri, who was still standing close with the knife at his throat.

“What now?” he asked.

Farenne’s expression turned cold and hard, “We play this out to the end.” With the slightest of gestures she motioned to Neri, before turning to face Elerre and the Count. With a flick of her wrist, Farenne sent a triangular blade arcing through the air towards Elerre.

“No!” Modred cried, as the strange weapon flew at Elerre. Something cold and sharp flicked across his throat, as Neri shoved him forward. The lanky warrior believed himself dead, as he tumbled towards the ground. The shadow of Neri flew over him, as she sprang past him, her gown flapping like finely tailored wings. To Modred’s surprise, when he struck the faded rug there was no spray of blood, and his breath still came in ragged gasps. It seemed the petite shrew had scratched him, but not slit his throat. The scruffy warrior felt no relief, because of his failure to protect Elerre. Falenne’s throwing blade twisted in the air, before arcing up from the ground at his surprised patron. It cuffed her forehead with a whack, sending the lovely woman flipping backward. 𠇎lerre!” Modred shouted again, as he scrambled to his feet.

Released from Elerre’s supernatural grip, the Count fell against the bed, sending it crashing down under him. The snarling nobleman, started to thrust himself past the upturned bed, to where Elerre’s body lay pinned, but Neri and Farenne were on him before he could move. In a fluid gesture Neri hooked a noose of thin wire around the startled Count’s neck, threw the other end over a beam and gripped the handle at the other end of the wire. Farenne straddled the choking Count’s chest, while the wire drew his head back towards her. The nobleman’s eyes bulged in his head and he turned red.

“Do you know who we are?” Farenne asked in a mild voice, stroking his cheek with a slender hand. The Count managed to shake his head, his complexion now turning dark purple. 𠇍o you know what we are?” This time the choking Ileshian nobleman nodded, but his answer was unintelligible. With a subtle gesture, Farenne indicated Neri should relax but not release the wire that had the Count hooked.

“Assassins,” he hissed.

Neri scowled, but Farenne regarded him with a patient smile, “Not just any assassins – we’re Blades of Ishaak.” The petite girl ruffled the gasping Count’s hair, “And you’ve been a bad boy, Count Marusala, else you would not be making our acquaintance.”

“Your kind are outlawed,” he hissed, clearly pained by his defiance and the effort of looking back at Farenne.

The slender assassin shrugged, “Yet every noble from the High King down, and any merchant with wealth enough, happily pays for our services when they require a deft knife or subtle poison.”

“You would kill me to help a witch?” the Count accused in a rasp.

The slender assassin shook her head, “I don’t care about Elerre.” She leant closer to Count Marusala’s ear. “We used her to get to you.” A cruel glint entered her gaze. “If you want to kill your lover that’s your business.” Farenne shrugged, “Your infidelity is ours.” The Count paled when he heard her last pronouncement.

“My wife would never have me killed,” the terrified Count hissed, his expression becoming desperate as he realized his situation.

Neri shook her, “No… poor deluded fool that she is, the Countess could never see you harmed.” She grinned at the confused Ileshian nobleman, “But her mother could.” With a jerk of her wrist, the petite raven-haired girl pulled the wire tight again, and locked it into place by driving the spiked end of the handle into the wall.

While Farenne patted the choking Count’s cheek and gloated over his terror, Modred dove past them to reach the other side of the upturned bed. He did not know what was coming next – he did not care if his life was forfeit, but he had to reach Elerre. To his surprise, he found her alive, but unconscious. Her chest was rising and falling in healthy breaths. When he reached down and turned her face towards him, he saw a flowering bruise across her forehead, but no other injury. The flat of Farenne’s throwing blade had knocked her out, but appeared to have done no lasting damage. It was then that Modred got a good look at Elerre’s face – which was transformed and completely alien. Her cheeks were higher and sharper, her fluttering eyelids now covered almond shaped eyes, and a long pointed ear poked from her blonde tresses. She was beautiful still, but she was fey.

“She’s not human,” he gasped.

“You’re right,” Farenne confirmed with a nod. Modred turned to eye the graceful assassin, wondering if she was going to kill them both. Appearing to read his fear, Farenne shook her head with a patient smile. “We were hired only to kill the Count, not his lover.” She regarded him with obvious pity, “Or the hapless soul who has fallen in love with her.”

“Who are you?” Modred asked, pondering whether this terrible beauty was right. Did he love Elerre? In spite of the magick she had worked upon him, and her eldritch heritage, did he love her still?

“We are Blades in the Sisterhood of Ishaak,” Farenne replied in a quiet voice.

“Priestesses?”

“Of a kind,” she answered with a small smile. “Though Her glory is not a rapture you should wish for.” Farenne reached into Elerre’s cloak and retrieved an engraved amulet of gold and silver. “Our employer also wished this returned to the Marusala treasury.”

The sounds of both the choking Count and the arrival of the City Watch at last reached Modred. Farenne motioned to Neri with some fast gestures of her hand. The other assassin answered with a quick gesture her own. It was clear they were communicating with the gestures, though Modred had no idea what passed between them. Neri cut the wire choking the count, before rushing to the open window. The lithe assassin sprang past the curtains, grabbing the window frame and swinging up onto the roof. Heavy footsteps pounded on the stairs, as the City Watch came rushing upwards.

“You love her still?” Farenne asked, as she motioned to Elerre’s unconscious form. Modred answered with a silent nod. ȁThen hide her face, and get her as far away from here as soon as you can,” the petite assassin instructed. 𠇎ven if they don’t recognize what she is – they would burn her for her alien looks.”

“What is Elerre?” Modred asked, unsure whether he wanted to hear. The assassin answered with a shrug. Setting that mystery aside, Modred frowned toward the choking Count, “You let him live?”

Farenne’s answering chuckle was terrifying, “The hunt is an offering to our blessed Mistress. She is better pleased if the sacrifice knows what is coming.” The warrior gaped in horror, as Farenne nodded a grinning confirmation. “We’ll be back for him soon enough. Let him babble of his fear to those who cannot protect him. Let him surround himself with pointless protection and flee all the way to the mountains. He will still be our offering.” The sounds from outside the door confirmed the City Watch was inside Elerre’s apartment. “Now get away from here, and pray our employer doesn’t decide Elerre should be punished as well.” With that Farenne sprinted across the chamber and followed her partner out of the window, just as a shouting mob of City Watch came crashing into the chamber.

With all the noise and confusion, the Watchmen did not notice the two sets of light footsteps crossing the roof above their heads. Modred made use of the initial confusion to pull Elerre’s hood across her face and scoop her up into his arms. Smooth lies and half-truths placated the City Watch as he carried Elerre across the chamber. There would be more explaining to do, but no one would believe a scruffy half-caste and his girlfriend capable of causing so many deaths. No, they would be free to escape the city soon enough. Modred would protect his fey love from any who tried to harm her. With a shudder he silently prayed Neri and Farenne would not come calling upon them and test his resolve.