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Across from Ahndee’s empty place sat Kooreeos Skiros, apparently oblivious to the highly charged atmosphere. He was talking softly with the wizened, beaknosed little man on his right, Nathos Evrehos, the goldsmith-moneylender. Lastly, Bili gave a hard stare to Paulos, Guildmaster of the duchy’s blacksmiths, and bastard half brother of the dying Thoheeks. The insolent, hateful glare that he got in return set the blood to pounding in his temples. Some of his anger must have been visible, for Komees Djeen hastily laid a hand on Bill’s armguard, then hastened to speak before Bili might.

“Why,” he demanded in clipped tones, “have our well-paid Freefighters been replaced with piketoting amateurs, Myros? I’m certain sure it’s your idea. Sun and Wind, man, you come up with more harebrained schemes than a full troop of village idiots could concoct! Since we’re paying good gold to professional swords, why deprive the fields and streets of ploughboys and dungscoopers?”

Myros grinned. “There are less than twoscore mercenaries left, and they remain only because some fool hired them to a contract of twenty-six, rather than twenty-four moons. As fast as the barbarians’ contracts expired, I have let them go. Almost all the city guards are now men who bear their arms for their homes and their lands.” The Vahrohnos’s grin had metamorphosed into a twisted grimace. His features were empurpling with his passion and his eyes gleamed the feral fire of fanaticism. “Not for mere gold do these men bear arms, but for their Faith and their long lost heritage!”

To Bili, it seemed obvious that his mothers had erred in their judgment of Myros’s case, for the rebellious dog appeared to believe every word churned out by his sewer-mouth.

Count Djeen crashed his gauntleted fist against the tabletop, grating, “That cuts it, you boyloving dungwallower! Such abuse of your authority cannot be tolerated! You are hereby relieved as governor of this city. Depart this chamber and await Council’s censure.”

Myros’s laugh was cold and sharp as midwinter icicles.

  Lounging back in his chair, he exchanged a knowing glance with Kooreeos Skiros, whose teeth flashed through his thick black beard. Then the Vahrohnos stared insolently into the Komees’s one blue eye, drawling, “I think not, you old fool, I think not.”

The elderly nobleman snapped to the nearest pikeman, “Guard, escort the Vahrohnos Myros from this chamber!”

The levyman only sneered. The Kooreeos’s smile broadened, Guildmaster Paulos smirked, and the gold-smith snickered, echoed by the three interlopers on the bench.

“He has stopped taking orders from your ilk, you heathen squatter,” said Paulos, through his smirk. “We all have. This city of Eeleeoheepolis is back in the hands of its rightful owners and soon all the duchy will be!”

‘This city,” answered Bili, in a hard voice, “is called Morguhnpolis and is the property of Clan Morguhn, as is the Duchy. That is the established order of things. But the borders of this my Duchy are not closed, as well you know, smith! Any free man who likes not my overlord-ship has my leave to quit these lands!”

Paulos stood and leaned down the table toward Bili. “Keep barking, you arrogant young puppy, sitting in the chair which should be mine! I, Paulos Morguhn, am rightful owner of Morguhn Hall, and you are all usurpers of my properties and titles and …”

Both Myros and the Kooreeos snapped, “Enough, Paulos!”

But there was no stopping the raving man. White patches of froth had formed at the corners of his mouth, his face was working, and his eyes were become wide and wild. “… when I am in my own, you’ll whine and whimper, not bark! I’ll have your nuts out, damn you, I’ll have the nuts of all of you what was sired by that boar-hog, Hwahruhn! And I’ll sell your brothers for poosteesee, and I’ll keep you to be my own loveboy, after I get tired of plowing the butterhaired bitches what whelped you! And I’ll…”

Bili and Hail were a fraction of a second too late in attempting to restrain Djehf. The weight of his armor not-withstanding, he leapt onto the table. In the twinkling of an eye, he was down its length and the steelshod toe of his hardswung boot had smashed Paulos’s mouth to a pulpy red ruin! The Guildmaster’s chunky body went back into his chair with such force that the wood cracked, splintered, collapsed, and dumped him on the floor. He lay halfconscious, moaning and making gurgling noises.

Myros jumped to his feet, drawing his sword. Waving it at Djehf, he shouted at the pikemen, “Kill the heathen!”

As the first levyman to obey stepped abreast of Master Ahlee, he abruptly voiced a keening wail and let go his pike to clutch at his left side. Ahlee pushed his victim away and, half turning, threw the bloody dagger at an-other pikeman. All six inches of wavy blade disappeared into that man’s belly, just below his breastplate. His scream sounded unearthly.

Myros, too, screamed, at the top of his lungs. “GUARDS! GUARDS! TO ME!

A multitude of feet pounded along the side corridors, but Ahlee snatched up the pike at his feet and ran the thick ash shaft through the gilded-bronze door rings. He turned back and drew his silver-hilted yataghan barely in time to counter the vicious downswing of Myros’s saber. But a twist of the brown wrist all but spun the weapon from Myros’s grasp and Ahlee’s lightening-fast riposte would have hamstrung the Vahrohnos, had he not hastily hopped backward. And speedily as the Ehleen moved, his opponent’s blade still managed to slice into the upper cuff of his boot, bringing blood from the flesh it covered.

Knifing the first pikeman, Bili had kicked over his chair, grasped his naked broadsword, and bounded over to cut down the closest levyman. The last pikeman did manage to reach the table, but as he made shift to jab at young Djehf, the straps of his breastplate were grabbed by Komees Hari, who jerked him backward while running the full length of his dress dirk between the short ribs. Freeing his blade with a cruel twist, he snatched up the falling pike and backed to stand beside Spiros Morguhn.

The merchant, Feelos Pooleeos, hastily armed himself with the pike, sword, and helm of Bili’s victim and took his place with the Kindred nobles.

Although Myros had always been accounted one of the best swordsmen of the duchy, he found himself fighting for his very life! Since his initial downswing, he had been constantly on the defensive, never having the opportunity to attack, all his skill and strength directed to keep the flickering, steel blur which was his adversary’s cursive blade out of his flesh. Nor had his best efforts been entirely successful, for he showed blood in three places and was being driven back across the room.

“Stehfahnos!” he finally panted. “Help me!”

But Stehfahnos’ sword stayed in its scabbard and Stehfahnos himself was dead on the marble floor. The youngest Morguhn left the tabletop to engage the butcher and the fop, who were trying to unbar the doors.

Cursing, the fop left the butcher to tug at the tightly wedged pikeshaft alone. Drawing a slender, ornate thrustingsword, he extended his arm to jab at the armored man’s unprotected face. Djehf’s powerful upswing shattered the fop’s brittle weapon and his downstroke severed the swordarm, just above the wrist. The fop fell to his knees, staring in horrified fascination at his hand lying before him on the floor, slowly releasing its grip on the hilt of the broken sword.