As Vorik had feared, others had heard and been drawn by the noise of the drill. And Jhiton didn’t pause to ponder it. He drew throwing knives from a belt sheath and stepped away from the support, trusting the darkness to hide him. The soldiers weren’t looking in his direction, and the aunt’s focus was on the ceiling and chunks of salt clunking down to the floor around her machinery.
Jhiton ran away from the support post and straight toward the drill, unconcerned about dodging crossbow quarrels the men might fire.
Still afraid Syla was in the area and would be his brother’s next target, Vorik pulled out a throwing knife of his own. As he stepped away from his support post and lifted it, hoping to time his throw to strike Jhiton in the back of the head with the hilt, he glimpsed something high above in his peripheral vision. A tiny red glowing dot fifty feet up on the pyramid, right by the ceiling. It made him pause. That had to be something magical. A trap?
The distraction cost him. Jhiton had time to pump his arm twice and throw his knives. They sped with deadly accuracy toward the guards, a blade lodging in each man’s neck.
Tibby screamed and ducked behind the wagon.
Vorik tore his gaze from the dot and threw his own knife. He couldn’t let Jhiton kill Syla’s aunt.
The weapon spun end over end, not making a noise, but Jhiton sensed its approach regardless. He didn’t evade it fully, and the blade clipped his ear instead of thudding into his skull.
“Vorik,” he said in exasperation, drawing his twin longswords. He glanced toward the wagon—Tibby wisely remained hidden behind it—but held the blades toward Vorik. “Are you going to fight meagain? Overher?” He waved one sword toward the wagon.
“Syla’s down here too. You know it.”
“If she stays out of the way, she doesn’t need to die.”
“Shewon’tstay out of the way. Neither of them will.” Vorik waved toward the aunt’s position.
As Vorik groped for a way to convince his brother to promise not to hurt Syla, Tibby rose into view with something in her hand. One of her explosive booby traps.
“Look out,” Vorik barked as Tibby hurled it at his brother.
Jhiton launched himself into a forward roll, avoiding the square flying through the air, and sprang to his feet as it landed. It boomed as light flashed, the shockwave pummeling him in the back and almost knocking him to the ground again. Jhiton recovered his balance and ran, not toward Tibby but toward Vorik with his swords in hand, frustration and determination in his eyes.
With gut-wrenching certainty, Vorik realized his brother had run out of patience with him. All he had time to do before Jhiton was upon him was draw his sword and a dagger and spring behind the wide support so they would have cover for their fight. After that, he could do nothing but defend himself.
Jhiton came at him with a flurry of blows that left Vorik on his heels, backing and backing again. Daunted, he realized he hadn’t seen his brother come at him with full intent to hurt—or even to kill?—before.
Vorik struggled to relax his muscles, loosening them so he could deflect the lightning-fast slashes that came at him from both sides, the twin swords carving through the air with such precision that they never touched, never tangled. Pain erupted on the side of Vorik’s thigh as a slash made it through. As he accepted the blow, another sword sped for his neck, a slash meant to decapitate him.
Yes, Jhiton had decided that, for the good of the people, Vorik needed to die.
Vorik didn’t want to kill his brother, but what choice did he have? If he didn’t defend himself, hewoulddie. AndSylawould die. Vorik couldn’t allow that. He had to stop the threat not only to his life but to hers.
Oddly, that realization filled Vorik with the calm he needed to defend himself. The decision had been made, and his muscles loosened. The slashes of their blades rang out, drowning out the thuds of the machinery, and time seemed to slow, allowing Vorikto see each sword strike with clarity, to parry with the perfect stroke, to keep Jhiton from driving him back farther.
Vorik kept his awareness of his surroundings, knowing the aunt might throw another explosive, but she wasn’t in view at the moment. There was only Jhiton and the frustration brimming in his usually calm green eyes, his face otherwise chiseled in stone.
He tried to back Vorik against a support to limit his maneuvering room, but Vorik sprang to the side and launched a kick to keep his brother back. A sword came down, almost catching his shin, but he was too fast and drew his foot down, then lunged in.
Jhiton whipped his sword across to halt his advance, but Vorik deflected it, then pushed in close, stabbing with his dagger. Jhiton caught it with his own blade, and for a moment, they stood in tableau, weapons locked together and muscles straining as each sought to push the other back, to overpower him. The dagger inched toward Jhiton’s throat, surprising Vorik. When had he grown stronger than his brother?
Before the dagger reached him, Jhiton sprang back. He swept both his blades in, knocking Vorik’s sword and dagger aside with such force that it affected Vorik’s balance. When Jhiton kicked at his hip, Vorik was a fraction of a second too late recovering and getting out of the way. The blow knocked him back.
Vorik rolled away, crashing into the pillar, but he jumped up immediately, spinning in time to meet another rush from Jhiton. Swords rang out as they clashed again. Vorik slashed and thrust, feeling urgency building. If they didn’t finish this soon, the aunt would throw explosives at them. Or Syla would die to Lesva’s blade.
That fear made Vorik even faster and more determined. Though he threw everything he had into getting past hisbrother’s defenses, he was startled when his sword sank deep into Jhiton’s gut. Surprise widened Jhiton’s eyes as well.
Horrified, Vorik pulled his blade out and jumped back.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered as one of the swords dropped from Jhiton’s hands.
It clattered to the floor. Jhiton pressed the tip of the other one down for support, leaning against it and grasping the deep wound in his gut. It would be a fatal wound, unless…
“I’ll take you to Syla,” Vorik blurted. “She can heal?—”
