The wind whipped about them, threatening to tear them from the wall and throw them to the streets below. Rousse grinned as he looked out along the coast, glimmering and jade under the pale moonlight. The ocean was hundreds upon hundreds of feet below them. Above them, Elekailos’ fortress. In the darkness of the night, Rousse and his Blackcloaks had returned to the Acropolis of Elekailos. They’d made it to the base of the ancient fortress, and using grappling hooks, they had begun to ascend the walls.

  He looked to his men as they scaled. He’d brought few of them, only twenty. Their goal was not to secure the palace- but to find Elekailos’ favored son and his preferred concubine. Rousse was banking on a man like him having love, but that was not a certain thing. If he did care for the boy, they’d hold him hostage and use him to get the support that Rousse needed. If he did not care about the boy, he’d kill Elekailos and work with his wife instead. Surely the woman would care for her son. There were many children, but there could be only one heir.

  “Be careful.” One of the Blackcloaks, a man named Daemos, gulped as he glanced down for the third time.

  “I’ve seen you gut a man like a fish, but a climb scares you?” A sun scorched man in light armor asked. He was from south of Aplos, a Freedman who joined up with the crew.

  Rousse held out a hand to silence his men, and they became like dead men climbing.

  There was no sound on the wall but the scraping of armor on pale stone and the heavy breathing of those struggling climbers. Each step Rousse wondered if one of his men would plummet to the ground below and completely expose their mission. It did not happen.

  As they scaled, Markos clambered a bit faster to catch up with him. By now, they could hear Zairosi speech somewhere above them. Rousse stopped, hanging from the wall. He glanced at one of the men dangling from the rope beneath him, and extended a hand.

  “Give me your dagger.” He ordered. Meanwhile, Markos drew one from a sheath attached to the rear of his shin guard. Torchlight traced the path of patrolling guards on the covered rampart walk above them.

  Kyros, a thin man with bright eyes, passed him his dagger. Kyros was one of the newer men, maybe Hekrosan or Gorgosi. Markos and Rousse scaled the rest of the wall in silence. With Adunta’s blessing, the two Zairosi were facing away. These guards were lightly armored, mostly ceremonial. They’d not fought a war man to man in hundreds of years.

  They waited under the edge of the ledge only briefly- then, they struck.

  Rousse lunged like a viper, sinking his dagger into his target’s neck. Markos leapt up with his own blade and split his man’s skull with a wet crack. They died without a chance to cry.

  They quickly hauled the others up the walls. They mingled among the columns. Carved of marble, littered with statues and cultivated bushes, this was less a fortress and more a manor. This place had forgotten the warrior spirit of its history. Looking at Markos, it was hard for Rousse to believe he hailed from this place.

  “Markos, take your ten and find the woman.” Rousse ordered. Markos nodded darkly, drawing a Xyphos from a sheath on his side. It gleamed with violent intent in the darkness of the wide eye of the moon.

  Let the gods watch. Rousse thought. This is sin, not shame.

  He drew his own sword.

  “I will find the boy.”

  The halls were dimly lit by the occasional torch thick with the hazy smoke of incense.

  Rousse and his men were the shadow of death, and any guard they came upon met the same fate as the two on the path out back. Those white marble floors were stained with blood, not one man given a chance to cry for help. The Acropolis, especially the upper portion of the highest place where Elekailos made the seat of his power, was a fortress and a work of art all at once. The pristine marble statues alone would have fetched a fortune back in Durendane. Though he knew such fineries would inevitably rot in the gardens of nobles who had no care for the history graven into the stone. The lush hall Rousse found himself in seemed familiar. He wagered he’d passed through it towards Elekailos’ throne room, but now he had to figure out if he was heading towards or away where he’d seen the children before. He’d have to hope their bedrooms were nearby.

  In the darkness, their cloaks and armor hid them. Men were pulled into alcoves and silenced, bodies hidden, and when groups of the enemy passed in too great of number they simply hid. With each step deeper into the Acropolis, Rousse expected for a shout, a warhorn, for their plan to be discovered- but it seemed the enemy had not expected him to be so audacious. They passed beneath a statue of one foreign goddess or another, and came to a grand set of doors. A man was posted to either side of the door, lightly armored and lazily watching the corridor. They could take these men, easily, but it’d be a fight. It’d be noise. The guards muttered to each other quietly.

  “Kyros.” Rouse whispered, motioning the man forward. He gripped his spear tightly, his eyes a mix of excitement and anxiety.

  “I will take the one on the right. You take the left. The rest of you, fan out and block the corridor. I will retrieve the boy.”

  There was a chorus of agreement among the conspirators as Rousse stood and took hold of a spear passed to him by a Danelander with a graying beard. He and Kyros locked eyes.

  On a nod, they lunged.

  The first man barely had time to scream as Rousse’s spear took him in the lung. A choked gasping noise that echoed in the halls of Elekailos’ palace. Kryos and his man struggled for a moment, until the Blackcloak headbutted the helmetless guard, and drove his dagger into his belly. Kyros stabbed the man once more, then again, spitting on the corpse as it toppled to the ground.

  Not Zairosi. Rousse concluded. Definitely Hekrosi.

  Those men were known for their brutality, for their skill in combat- theirs was the city of iron.

  Rousse watched as his men fanned out in either hall, and he drew off his helmet then pressed his ear to the ornate double doors. He could hear the soft sound of music on flutes and lyres, and the crackling of flame within a brazier. There was a woman singing. The fresh and heavy copper smell of blood clung in the air as Kyros joined Rousse near the door.

  “Are you ready?” He asked the younger man. He nodded, ripping a Xyphos from the sheath of the guard Rousse had killed. Rousse yanked his spear from the dead man.

  For a moment, neither of them said anything as they prepared to push through the door. The hall was silent, the floor dark with freshly spilled blood.

  “She may scream when she sees us.” Rousse looked to Kyros. “We will need to move quickly.”

  Kyros nodded. Rousse hoped Markos had found the concubine.

  Perhaps we’re better off searching for the head chef? Rousse thought.

  As the doors were pushed inward, Rousse watched the relaxation wash away from the singing woman. Perhaps one of the mothers, perhaps a maid. In any case, Rouse leveled his spear at her and shook his head. The woman froze, shaking like a rabbit.

  Rousse looked across the small sea of children within the room, there must have been two or three dozen of them, most between the ages of eight to ten.

  “Who among you is the heir to King Elekailos?” Rousse asked. The woman shushed the children before any of them could speak, and Rousse sighed. Kyros approached the woman slowly, as if she were a rabid animal. Her eyes darted frantically between Kyros and the door. He advanced through flickering brazier flame.

  Rousse tightened up his grip on his spear, striding carefully towards the crowd of children. They had begun to realize what was happening, they swayed away from him like a receding tide.

  “I won’t hurt anyone.” Rousse said in the harsh language of the Zairosi. “I need Elekailos’ firstborn….he wants me to take him on an adventure. As a….” He tried to find a word that was equivalent to squire or ward. “Protistos.” He settled on, trying to keep his tone soft. A Protistos was usually the son of a warrior, trained in his father’s arts. More of an Aplosi custom, but he hoped they’d understand. Their eyes lingered on him, then the door.

  He was glad it was so dark. Those in the room still could not see the bodies in the halls, and they had not yet noticed the blood on his weapon.

  The room was dimly lit, and littered with toys, furs, and instruments from across the Free Cities. No expense was wasted on their comfort, from the silks of their beds to the satin drapes. The heavy scent of burning spice assaulted Rousse as he stepped deeper into the room. Blood dripped from his spear, and a wave of a shriek ran across the children.

  Kyros lunged, seizing the woman by the hair and dragging her to the floor. The children screamed in earnest now, the sound echoing down the halls. Soldiers would be coming. Rousse slammed his spear into the ground and stomped forward. Children fell back and scrambled away underfoot.

  “Do you know who I am?” He snarled. The children looked among each other nervously.

  “I am Rousse the Black, and the Blacksails have come to stay.” His reputation preceded him. Several of the children wept now. Now for his least favorite part, the bluff.

  “Now, tell me where Elekailos’ favored son is, or I shall have each of you draped from the head of a ship while we sail to Hekros.”

  At the mention of his home, Kyros glanced to Rousse from his position with a dagger to the woman’s neck. She had stopped squirming, but spat at Rousse.

  “You’re a monster!” She cried. “A beast!”

  Rousse turned to face her.

  “So one of them is yours?” He asked.

  Her face ran as pale as the driven snow. She glanced to the door, and Rousse knew what she was planning. She swallowed.

  “You’ll have to kill me!” She slammed her head back into Kyros, as one of the older boys surged forward to grab Rousse’s spear. He wrenched it back from the boy and shoved him, sending him spiraling back into his siblings. A few of them fell to the ground, tangled amongst each other. There was a sudden and shrill cry, and as Rousse turned around he saw Kyros atop the woman, fighting to bury the dagger in her heart.

  “Wait-!” Rousse ordered, but it was too late, and with her final gasp the dagger sank into its place. He twisted the knife, turning to face Rousse. The room was a cacophony of children’s cries.

  “I…” He said. “She…she tried to kill me.” He finished. Rousse grabbed the boy who struck him, hauling him out of the crowd. He was a mass of flailing limbs and screams, he reached for the woman on the floor, sobbing.

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  Not a maid. Rousse swallowed, trying to force the sickness away. Things were not supposed to go like this. This damaged things.

  “We have no time.” He said as the sound of melee erupted in the hall. Guard patrols had come to investigate the noise. He extended a hand to Kyros, taking the knife that had just been used to end the boy’s mother and pressing it to his throat.

  “Tell me, where is your eldest brother?” He asked.

  “I am eldest…” The boy managed through his sobs as Rousse dragged him into the hall. The fighting stopped near instantly as he arrived, the few Zairosi still living pulling back. A few of his Blackcloaks were among the dead he realized sadly, Daemos among them. Rousse motioned to the Zairosi.

  “You grab the bodies, or I will ensure the bloodline ends tonight. My dagger is already bloody.” The sounds of the children sobbing within the room behind him were still audible. He did not enjoy this, but to stop now would be death. Weapons clattered to the marble floor as the Blackcloaks departed for their second meeting with King Elekailos.

  The soldiers were on their heels the entire way. Sweaty hands gripped shaking weapons, eyes on the heir of Elekailos. Rousse had to guess, judging by their reactions, that his gambit had paid off. The rotund man must have at least some care for his children, the heir at least, if the guards were acting this way. The hall was silent as they moved, excepting the clanging of armor and the clattering of weapons. Echoing footsteps boomed on cold marble stones as their group moved towards the audience hall where Elekailos had met with them before. Seething, hate-filled eyes glared from every man and woman in the castle, and Rousse couldn’t blame them. He was forging this alliance on knife-tip, and he’d need to be careful they couldn’t return the favor. He kept a tight hand around the boy’s face, wet with his grief and terror. His legs hardly worked beneath him, Rousse was more dragging the boy than using him as a shield. He looked at Kyros again, who was focused on the Zairosi behind them. The guards to their rear were advancing like a pack of dogs on wounded prey. They knew they had the numbers, but they could not risk the boy’s life.

  “Mother…” he mumbled, eyes red from weeping.

  Steady hands on spears, frightful eyes darting between boy and monster. Rousse struggled to balance his focus between the enemies pushing behind him, and the hall ahead of him. His Blackcloaks kept a tight formation, their better armor giving them somewhat of an advantage. They may be outnumbered, but each of their enemies knew what the cost of battle would be. Surely the enemy would win, but how many would die to claim the Blacksails?

  Markos and the others had already arrived, only five of them were left, each with bloodied weapons and ragged armor- they’d fought their way to the audience hall, and seemingly had not found their target. Rousse grit his teeth.

  I’m sorry, child. He glanced at the boy. I need Zairos.

  Elekailos had been summoned from bed, his eyes still heavy with sleep. The bloody dagger to his son’s throat had a sobering effect, waking the old beast from his slumber.

  “You dare-” He began in broken Durish, but Rousse knew he needed to keep moment.

  “I’ll be speaking!” He shouted. “I tried to offer you peace, and you replied that you did not negotiate with Sellswords.” Rousse locked eyes with the Tyrant.

  “I have not come to deal in steel, but blood! Yours, your sons, your enemies! Someone shall bleed!”

  The King fell into his own mother tongue in his anger. Markos translated for him.

  “You think to bargain with the blood of better men?”

  “I have already spilled it!” Rousse spat in return, digging the dagger shallowly into the flesh of the boy’s neck, just far enough to draw blood. He withered under Rousse, in the arms of the boogeyman. The Zairosi guards pressed in on all sides, shouting commands. They were wary of Markos. They knew of his past. When Rousse had hired him, he’d been hunting Death Wyrms in the desert- his first title had been Markos Wyrm-Killer. Rousse wondered what the Zairosi thought of seeing their hero work with a devil.

  Elekailos held up a fat hand, holding his dogs at bay. They spat curses as more of them filtered into the room. It was becoming clear they would not survive this fight.

  “Why should I not kill you?” Elekailos asked, the corpulent tyrant lumbering as close as his swarm of guards would allow. He towered a full head and shoulders above them, in a different life he’d have been a hellish gladiator to face.

  “You would gamble with your son’s life?” Rousse asked. He tried not to let his worry bleed through. If Elekailos did not care for the boy, they were as good as dead.

  “I have many children.” He replied, but Rousse could read the truth in his eyes. The fear of a father. Rousse had seen it before.

  Elekailos shifted, glancing from his firstborn to Rousse.

  Perhaps I can talk my way out of this. He wondered, trying to count how many men were in the audience hall. They were surrounded, there must have been forty or more of them. Twelve Blackhelms to forty Zairosi was a fairer fight than either side would care to admit, but they were surrounded, and their short blades would make them easy prey for the enemy’s spears. It was then that more men arrived, bringing news of the woman Kyros had slain.

  Elekailos’ one and only wife.

  The room had once more erupted into shouts and demands, flashing steel and jabbing spear-points.

  Rousse pressed the dagger deeper to the boy’s neck, buying them a few more moments as the enemy surged back like a wave.

  “Before you kill us, consider how many slaves and Freedmen walk Zairosi streets, wishing for a chance to kill the masters who abused them?” He scanned the crowd for nervousness. Elekailos had not seemed to bite, but he could see the idea taking root. There were nearly as many freed slaves as citizens in Zairos.

  “What damage could they do?” Elekailos asked, his eyes swimming with everything from rage to fear to devastation.

  “You’d be surprised, with a bit of Gorgon’s Fire.”

  At the mention of the stuff, the air seemed to run cold. Gorgon’s Fire was said to be magic, and Rousse believed those legends. Gray flame that burnt flesh into stone, fire so strange it could burn on the surface of water- such things could only be magical.

  For a time, nobody in the room spoke. Men shuffled, leveled weapons. The boy sniffled and Elekailos breathed heavily with the burden of his situation.

  After a time, he came to his conclusion.

  Elekailos pointed a sausage-like finger accusatorily at Rousse. His breath heaved with the struggle of his breathing, anger etched across him like the cracks of stone.

  “I say you all die!” He shouted in Durish. The room erupted into movement, one Blackcloak taking a spear to his shoulder as another lashed out with a Xyphos and severed a man’s leg. Both he and the child erupted into screaming as Rousse let loose with the dagger. It sailed through the air like an iron bird, and its talons found refuge in Elekailos’ chest. He stumbled back into his chair with a groan, his son shrieking wildly, suddenly having found a new burst of strength.

  Rousse hefted the boy into the air, holding him in front, like a fleshy shield. One Blackcloak was pierced in the throat with a spear, gurgling. The man used the last of his strength to fling his blade into the belly of his killer, and they both fell to the ground as one of Rousse’s remaining Blackcloaks dashed in to replace him.

  Most of the room hadn’t recognized it, but Elekailos was dead- Rousse held the new king in his arms.

  “HEAR ME!” He bellowed, just above the din of starting battle. “YOUR KING IS DEAD! I HOLD HIS SON!”

  The room fell into silence as eyes passed onto Elekailos’ corpse.

  “Kill him!” One shouted. “Kingslayer!” Another cursed.

  “How much more can I take from you tonight?” Rousse asked the boy, whispering in his ear. His stomach twisted in knots. He had not intended to make an orphan of the boy, to make him see this. But death was in the room with them, and the only way to chase him out was with words and fear.

  “S-stand down!” The boy finally managed. “Stop killing each other, stop the blood, just stop!” He wailed, and one man took a knee. For a few moments, he knelt alone, and Rousse worried the hall would once more fall into violence. But soon, another knelt. And with the clatter of each armored knee, Rousse felt life return to him.

  On the balcony outside, as Rousse watched his Blackcloaks marching in from the port, Markos joined him. The city was warm, even in the night. The pale white eye of the moon reflected off the black ocean off the Zairosi harbor.

  “Kyros is with the boy.” He uttered gravely as he came to stand with Rousse.

  “You left him with the killer of his mother?” Rousse asked.

  “Fear is a powerful motivator.” Markos replied. “It will ensure his loyalty, for now.”

  Rousse supposed he was right, but that did not stop the sick feeling in his chest.

  “Another flawless plan.” He frowned, glancing at the blood on his hand.

  “That was close.” Markos said. “It is a fluke we stand here.”

  Rousse had to agree. They were outnumbered, surrounded. Sure, some of them would have died, but if Elekailos the IInd had not been fearful, but instead enraged? If he had ordered them dead? He shuddered to think of it, his story ended at the hands of a mere child.

  “The gods are not done with me yet.” Rousse finally said.

  “But you should not tempt them.” Markos replied. “Our history is full of men who toyed with the gods- and they do not take kindly to such efforts.”

  Markos was unreadable beneath his helm, a tall and shadowy statue. His spear was still stained with the blood of Zairosi soldiers. For a time, they simmered in the silence.

  “Be wary of death, Rousse.” Markos said, still looking out across the flickering lights of the sleeping city. “He follows men of ambition as vultures follow carrion.”

  Markos looked across the ocean, towards the horizon. Rousse followed his gaze, towards the throne he craved, across the ocean in Durendane.

  “Ser Jamen has sent word of his success.” Markos said with the first beams of the sunlight. “The seller would rather discuss the price in person. She does not wish to sell with coin.”

  Rousse raised an eyebrow, turning to his comrade. They were alone on the marble balcony.

  “What do you mean? What else do you sell with?” Rousse questioned.

  Markos shrugged.

  “These are strange times.” He replied.