They were going to make it. They were going to?—
“Leaving so soon?”
The voice cut through the chaos like a blade through silk. Gareth turned.
Lord Alaric de Montrevain stood at the top of the courtyard steps, dressed in battle leathers and armed with a sword that gleamed with recent oiling. Behind him, more soldiers poured from the keep’s doors, not the disorganized rabble they’d foughtthrough, but trained fighters in matched armor. His personal guard.
Alaric smiled. It was the same smile Gareth remembered from the forest clearing three years ago, when he’d lain bleeding in the mud and listened to his former lord gloat.
“Hello, dog.” Alaric descended the steps slowly, savoring every moment. “I hoped you’d come. Though I admit, I expected more dramatics. Storming the gates, perhaps. A bold charge.” He glanced at the tunnel entrance, visible now in the growing light. “Instead you crawl through the sewers like a rat. How fitting.”
Gareth said nothing. He positioned himself between Elodie and Alaric, his grip steady on his sword.
“Not even a word for your old master?” Alaric’s smile widened. “Oh, that’s right. You can’t speak anymore. My men were so thorough.” He touched his own throat in mock sympathy. “Such a pity. You had such a lovely voice.”
Behind him, Gareth felt Elodie’s hand press against his back—not pulling him away, just... connecting. Grounding him.
I’m here, that touch said. Whatever happens, I’m here.
Alaric stopped at the bottom of the steps. His soldiers spread out behind him, cutting off retreat. Gareth’s men drew close, forming a defensive circle, but they were outnumbered three to one.
“Here’s how this ends,” Alaric said pleasantly. “You can surrender now, watch me kill your faerie woman, and then die yourself—slowly, this time. Or you can fight, watch me kill your faerie woman, and then die anyway.” He tilted his head. “Either way, you lose. But I thought I’d give you the choice.”
Gareth’s sword came up. The movement was smooth, unhurried, inevitable, the gesture of a man who had made his choice long ago.
Alaric’s smile flickered. Just for a moment, something that might have been uncertainty crossed his aristocratic face. Then he laughed and raised his own blade. “So be it. Let’s finish what we started in that clearing.” He beckoned with his free hand. “Come, dog. Show me what three years of silence have taught you.”
Gareth handed his dagger to Miles without looking. Signed to his men.Protect her. Whatever happens.
Then he stepped forward to meet his enemy.
CHAPTER 26
Steel met steel with a sound like thunder. Elodie pressed herself against Miles’s side and watched two men try to kill each other in the gray light of dawn. She’d seen Gareth fight before in the training yard, sparring with his men, but this was different. This was real. This was fury and grief and three years of silence channeled into every strike.
Alaric was good. That was the terrifying thing. He moved with the fluid grace of a man who’d trained since childhood, who’d fought in tournaments and border skirmishes and God knew what else. His blade wove patterns in the air that Elodie couldn’t follow, seeking openings, testing defenses.
But Gareth was better. He’d always been better, she knew that now, watching him. The difference between them wasn’t skill, but something deeper. Alaric fought like a man proving a point. Gareth fought like a man with nothing left to lose.
Their swords clashed again, and Alaric stumbled back a step. His composure cracked, just slightly, and Elodie saw something flicker in his eyes. Fear? No—shock. The shock of a man who’d expected to win and was suddenly realizing he might not.
“Is this what you’ve been doing for three years?” Alaric’s voice was still smooth, but there was an edge to it now. “Trainingin your little ruin? Waiting for this moment?” He lunged, was parried, retreated. “How touching. The silent knight, dreaming of revenge.”
Gareth didn’t respond. His face was a mask of deadly focus, every ounce of his attention on the man before him. He pressed forward, forcing Alaric back toward the courtyard wall, his strikes coming faster, harder, more precise.
Around them, the soldiers held position. Whatever honor existed among killers, it kept them from interfering. This was between their lords now, and they would wait for the outcome.
Most of them, anyway. Movement caught Elodie’s eye. One of Alaric’s men, young, eager, stupid, was edging around the perimeter of the fight. His attention fixed on Gareth’s unprotected back.
“Miles—” she started, but Miles was already moving to intercept a different threat, two soldiers testing the line to his left.
The young soldier drew his sword. Ten feet from Gareth. Eight. Six.
Elodie didn’t think. She grabbed the first thing she could reach, a torch guttering in a wall bracket, half-fallen from the earlier fighting, and lunged.
Elodie wasn’t graceful or skilled. She was a medieval history professor from Manchester who’d never held a weapon in her life, and she swung that torch like a cricket bat at a particularly offensive ball.
It connected with the soldier’s helmet with a clang that rattled her teeth. He staggered sideways, more surprised than hurt, and she hit him again, across the shoulders, the arm, anywhere she could reach. Fire scattered across the stones.
