Khyven the Unkillable: Legacy of Shadows, #1

By Todd Fahnestock

A rising champion. A secret rebellion. A deadly crossroads.

2022 Colorado Authors League Award Winner and Finalist for the 2022 Colorado Book Award

After forty-nine victories in the bloody Night Ring, Khyven the Unkillable is a celebrity gladiator. If he can survive one more battle, King Vamreth will free him and declare him a knight.

 

But the king doesn't play fair.

 

Instead, for Khyven's fiftieth "battle," the king orders him to travel through the magical noktum and infiltrate the secret lair of a rebel leader known only as "The Queen in Exile." All Khyven must do to earn his knighthood is gain the queen's trust…

…and betray her.

 

As Khyven struggles to complete his mission, he is caught between a growing respect for a rebel queen who will do anything for her people and a ruthless king who will stop at nothing to crush her.

 

For lovers of Dungeons & Dragons RPGs, this is a book from the sweeping epic fantasy world of Eldros Legacy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Todd Fahnestock
• Release date: Dec 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781952699474

Book preview

Book Description

Khyven the Unkillable

A rising champion. A secret rebellion. A deadly crossroads.

After forty-nine victories in the bloody Night Ring, Khyven the Unkillable is a celebrity gladiator. If he can survive one more battle, King Vamreth will free him and declare him a knight.

But the king doesn’t play fair.

Instead, for Khyven’s fiftieth battle, the king orders him to travel through the magical noktum and infiltrate the secret lair of a rebel leader known only as The Queen in Exile. All Khyven must do to earn his knighthood is gain the queen’s trust…

…and betray her.

As Khyven struggles to complete his mission, he is caught between a growing respect for a rebel queen who will do anything for her people and a ruthless king who will stop at nothing to crush her.

Title Page

Copyright Page

KHYVEN THE UNKILLABLE

Copyright © 2023 by Todd Fahnestock

All rights reserved.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Ebook Edition

ISBN 13: 978-1-952699-47-4

Cover design: Rashed AlAkrokaCover Art by:

Rashed AlAkroka

Cover Design by:

Rashed AlAkroka, Sean Olsen, Melissa Gay & Quincy J. Allen

Map Design by:

Sean Stallings

Dedication

To all the dedicated fans of high fantasy. I see you online. I see you in your colorful costumes at the cons I attend. You inspire me. You keep me writing.

This one is for you.

The Chronicler

The Chronicler – Khyven the Unkillable

The man in the stocks had been there for longer than anyone could guess.

The stocks were made of crude, pitted iron with a riveted latch on the right side secured by a lock as old as the ruined city behind him. The man’s only accouterment was a dazzling ruby ring on the middle finger of his right hand.

He ate when gawkers brought him food. He drank when they brought him water. But he appeared to need none of this. From what the astonished denizens of Strawford could tell, he could not die.

The nearby villagers had discovered the man in the stocks a year ago when one of their hunters had stumbled across the ruins of the ancient city barely more than a mile from their newly established hamlet. The man stood on a rise before a valley that contained broken buildings, collapsed walls, and a single metal tower. The ancient city had been abandoned in another age, and its absent keepers had left nothing behind besides that single tower….

And the man in the stocks.

Of course, they’d tried to free him. They had clothed him. They had broken saws and prybars on that immovable latch, to no avail. They had even shattered the head of a sledgehammer on it. During the night, a few thieves had tried to remove his ring, one going so far as to try to cut the finger from the man’s hand.

But the man’s finger was as indestructible as the latch. Magic.

Soon, they had come to consider the man as unchangeable and immovable as a mountain.

He stood there, bent over, gnarled hands and gray-haired head stuffed through the holes of the stocks during the heat of the summer. He stood there during the snows of winter.

And he told his story.

He told it to whoever would listen: The story of the Second War of the Giants. Of Khyven the Unkillable. Of the Guardian Rellen back when he was a mortal man. Of Ora and the Dragons. Of Queen Mikaela of the volcanoes. He told of how they had made the world safe from the Giants. A myth that, of course, everyone knew. But the man in the stocks seemed to have details that even scholars did not.

He drew a crowd every day. Sometimes it was only a few children who had escaped their parents to come see the eternal man. Sometimes it was an entire crowd of travelers who had heard the tales of the man who could not die. Sometimes it was those same scholars who came to fill in the patches from history that their books had not captured.

Do you know the story of the Second War of the Giants…? the old man said. "Most people think they know about the war. Some say it was what opened the Thuroi and connected the five continents of Eldros.

"Some believe the war began on the continent of Daemanon when the coyote men attacked Pelinon. Some say it began in Drakanon, when the dragons took flight. Some say it began right here in Noksonon when the army of bloodsuckers emerged from the Great Noktum.

"They are all of them wrong. In the writing of history, it is always the big battles that are given the credit. But it was the first battles, those fought in the shadows long before the strife ever came into the light, that tell the true tale.

"How do I know? Oh, I know, little one. I know because I was there.

"I was there the day Queen Rhenn of Usara turned the tide of darkness. I was there when the great wizard Slayter Wheskone outwitted an elder dragon at his own game. And I was there during the rise of the one they call Unkillable…

"When you think of the war, you think of King Rellen’s sacrifice at the Elder Portal. Or the charge of the bat army of Pyranon.

"But the seeds of victory began with a young gladiator named Khyven, a selfish man. He had no interest in anything except his own desires, and certainly he had no idea that he would come to be the man that stood between us all and oblivion.

But I’m going to tell you his story, the true story of the man who saved the world….

Maps

Map Description automatically generatedMap Description automatically generated

Prologue

Vamreth

Ten Years Ago…

The coup began long before Vamreth’s fighters poured through the palace gates that night, but the bribe was the key. Vamreth would always remember that. What would come to be known as the Purge of Usara took a year of planning, secrecy, the expert counsel of the mysterious and chilling Tovos, and a hundred swordsmen. But in the end, a bag of gold coins pushed into the hands of two guardsmen brought the Laochodon reign crashing down.

Once the bribed guards let Vamreth and his fighters through the gates, the loyalists fell quickly, surprised and unprepared for his single-minded onslaught. Vamreth’s force cut through the palace like a scythe.

If the king’s guards had possessed even another few minutes to rally, the battle would have gone differently. But they didn’t, and Vamreth did not delay. Tovos had counseled him not to hesitate, even for a second, and to show no mercy.

Once inside, blood on their blades, Vamreth’s mage cast her spell and located the king. By the time the alarm had raced throughout the palace, Vamreth burst through the door to the royal bedchamber.

In his night clothes, the king spun to face the armed men and women.

A veteran of the Triadan Wars and no stranger to swordplay, King Laochodon went for his blade, perched on iron hooks embedded in the marble wall. He attacked and Vamreth leapt to meet the king.

Steel rang as Vamreth and the king crossed swords. They exchanged a flurry of blows while Vamreth’s cohort respectfully stood back. Parry, riposte, lunge, retreat. Vamreth had hoped the king would be caught by surprise, that his worry for his queen—for his entire kingdom—would distract him and sour his swordplay. It didn’t.

The king and Vamreth were evenly matched.

No, Vamreth finally said, winded. He leapt toward the safety of his fighters. It’s taking too long. Kill him.

Coward! Laochodon snarled, lunging. But Vamreth’s men rushed forward and a dozen swords pierced the king at once. Laochodon collapsed, gurgling his last breath.

The queen screamed.

At a nod from Vamreth, his men charged the queen.

She screamed again and leapt off the bed, but not before a pair of blades stabbed her. She fell to the floor, crying, gasping, crawling toward her dead husband.

Vamreth stood over her. In sight of a dozen of his fighters, his mage Halenza, and her ten-year-old apprentice, he ended the queen’s life with one brutal thrust.

He waited until her body went still before pulling out his sword.

Where are the children? he asked.

They are being dealt with, Vamreth’s captain said over the screams coming up the hall.

No survivors, Vamreth said. Not one.

And the servants? the captain asked. The tutors?

Kill them all. When the guards arrive, I want nothing left but the blood of the dead. Let the Laochodon loyalists feel my presence. Let them know that carnage and despair comes for them if they stand in my way.

Yes, sir. The captain hurried away.

More screams echoed down the hall as Laochodon’s children and servants were put to the sword. The captain returned, bloody blade in hand.

She wasn’t in her room, the captain reported.

Who?

The youngest princess. Rhennaria.

Did you search it? If she’s hiding under the bed—

Every inch. She wasn’t there. The Luminent girl is missing, too.

A queasy feeling spread through Vamreth’s gut. He heard Tovos’s voice in his mind, the last thing the frightening man had said: Be quick, for Fate will attempt to thwart you. Kill them all. Not a single can remain.

There had been a family of Luminents living in the royal wing, honored guests of Laochodon. A father, mother, and a girl the same age as the now-missing princess.

What of the Luminent girl’s parents? Vamreth growled.

Dead, the captain replied.

Vamreth turned to his mage. Find the princess.

Halenza’s eyes were already closed as she concentrated. Her young apprentice, a boy named Slayter, stared down the hallway, his brow furrowed like he was working through a mathematical problem. Halenza had insisted on bringing him, said it was part of his training. To Vamreth’s surprise, the boy was bearing up well. He hadn’t gasped or flinched; he’d just held that intense expression the entire time. Vamreth wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or cautious. The boy was certainly odd.

Halenza drew a symbol on the air. It burned like fire then vanished.

Down the stairs, she said. The Luminent girl is with her.

Vamreth cursed. How did she get past us? If she reaches a bastion of loyalists and they spirit her out the gates—

I do not believe that is her goal, Your Majesty.

Vamreth’s head came up at the use of the title. It was the first time someone had called him that. With a smile, he nodded. What, then, is her goal?

I think she is heading for the noktum.

What? Vamreth said incredulously. In the Night Ring? That was half a mile away.

Actually, Your Majesty, there is a doorway to the noktum in the bowels of the palace, the mage clarified. Barred and locked. It could be their destination.

Why would that be their destination?

They are children, sire. Perhaps they think it is an escape.

Show us, Vamreth said. We find her. We kill her. Not even one of Laochodon’s progeny can live.

The mage spun, her robes flowing around her. She ran quickly down the hallway, her soft red boots tapping the stones. Slayter hurried to follow, as did Vamreth and his force. The screams in the royal wing had ceased and booted feet could be heard clearly in the eerie silence.

Halenza entered the king’s study. She crossed to a larger-than-life painting of Laochodon that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Only when she put her hands on the frame did Vamreth see it was hanging away from the wall. Halenza pulled and the painting swung open on hinges. Behind it was a narrow wooden door, banded in steel and carved with ornate images of Giants and dragons. It, too, was ajar. Halenza threw it open and ducked inside. Her young apprentice was right behind her.

What is this? Vamreth had to twist sideways to fit into the tiny passage. The narrow hallway immediately turned into a spiral stone staircase so tight that Vamreth’s armored shoulders scraped on both walls. It was blacker than a moonless night and the light from the doorway only illuminated the first turn.

Halenza! he called into the darkness.

As if in response, a light swelled before him. One of Halenza’s magical symbols burned in the air, seemingly balanced on the tip of a finger and Vamreth could suddenly see quite well.

The stairway was polished stone the black of a charred log, a sharp contrast to the white marble in the rest of the palace. Also, these blocks were perfectly wrought and fitted without mortar… just like the Night Ring arena.

Vamreth’s men followed, and the stairway was soon filled with the thumping of many boots.

Vamreth felt like a hunting dog forced to chase a weasel down its hole. In the bobbing, flickering light, he saw snatches of carvings on the walls depicting some never-ending battle. Men and women, armor and shields, spears and swords. A dragon. A ship. He passed an iron sconce, but it held no torch.

What is this place?

It seemed to descend forever. Around and around and around. The stairs were so steep and so small that only half of his boot fit on each. Each step could easily turn into a slip. One slip might send him sliding down, out of control.

His thighs burned with fatigue and he called out again when it seemed they must have descended all four stories of the palace and another few, deep into the ground beneath.

Halenza!

We are close, she shouted up the stairwell.

With a muttered curse, Vamreth forced his weary legs to keep going.

Suddenly, the stairway opened onto a flat floor and Vamreth felt pushed into the ground. He stumbled and almost went to a knee before he was able to stand upright.

Halenza’s light illuminated a cavernous space, constructed from the same black stone. Vamreth stood awestruck in the center of the perfectly circular room. Walls curved to his right and to his left. The six-foot-wide column of perfectly fitted stones containing the circular stairway had plunged down from the high ceiling right into the middle of this place.

Vamreth nearly gaped, but he managed to keep his mouth shut. The hairs on the back of his neck and arms prickled. This place hadn’t been made by Human hands. He didn’t know how he knew, but a chill of dreadful certainty rippled through him.

Halenza’s ghostly blue light showed the curved, bare walls, a bare floor, and two archways in addition to the archway of the staircase.

Vamreth’s gaze was drawn to the largest archway, which was at least fifteen feet tall and ten feet wide. It had a thick, elaborate facade carved with the same figures from the same endless battle he’d glimpsed in the cramped stairwell.

At first he thought it was the gateway to the noktum, but as he stared at it, he realized it couldn’t be. There was no darkness beyond. No passageway. It was just an infinite depth of shifting colors.

He shook his head, thinking the lack of light was playing tricks on his eyes. He could swear the colors were glowing, but they cast no illumination. Azure blue transformed to amber, then to green, then to red, then to charcoal black, then back to blue…

What is this place? he finally said, his gaze stuck to the huge archway.

Your Majesty! Halenza’s urgency snapped his attention away from the mesmerizing colors to the smaller, normal-sized archway. It was plainly built. A rough, banded-iron gate had been bolted into place over the opening and fixed with a lock. He ran to stand beside Halenza and her apprentice as his fighters spilled into the room.

Beyond the locked gate stood the princess and her Luminent friend. The slender elf girl’s hair shone, as though each strand was filled with a bright, buttery light. It was said the hair of a Luminent glowed when they experienced extreme emotions.

And the girls looked terrified.

Both had tear streaks on their dirty faces. The Luminent’s mouth was open, her huge eyes wide as she stood behind the princess, a hand on her shoulder.

Princess Rhennaria was closest to the gate, frowning, her eyebrows creased as she tried to put on a brave face. She had a dagger in one hand and a large key in the other; that was how they’d passed the gate. And the princess—smart girl—had had the presence of mind to lock the gate.

Behind the girls was the noktum, a shifting mass of utter blackness that filled the hallway some twenty paces beyond. Thick, black tentacles reached out, blindly questing for something to grab. It was just like the noktum doorways in the Night Ring. If the girls got close enough—if they even touched one of those amorphous tentacles—it would wrap around them and pull them into the noktum. And that would be the end of them.

What could have possessed them to think this was an escape?

If that had been their intent, they had clearly reconsidered. They cringed away from the questing tentacles, which forced them to stand just a few paces from the iron gate.

Open it, Vamreth said to Halenza.

It is… bound, she said.

Bound? Vamreth was confused. He had seen her perform magic miracles far more impressive than picking a lock.

The key is the only way, she said. This lock cannot be picked and it cannot be forced by any spells I possess.

Then what good are you? Vamreth snarled. He looked over his shoulder at the dozen men who had entered the room. All of them were looking around, obviously having similar experiences to Vamreth’s. Crossbow!

Halenza looked downright bloodthirsty as she gazed at the children, but the rest of Vamreth’s fighters hesitated. He wasn’t sure if it was the noktum that had weakened their spines or if they were having a collective attack of conscience.

Vamreth rolled his eyes. Senji’s Teeth, get yourselves together. Somebody give me a crossbow.

Armor clinked and creaked as the men turned and a crossbow was passed forward. Vamreth took it and the three offered bolts. The string had already been ratcheted back. He fitted a bolt and turned to the girls.

His confidence grew, and he tasted victory on his tongue like the sweet sting of fine Triadan whiskey. These children were already dead, really. They’d died upstairs with their parents. They were the last barrier between him and the kingdom of Usara, and that barrier had to be shattered.

You’re in a bit of a spot, aren’t you? he said conversationally.

The Luminent began crying, looking between Vamreth and the noktum’s tentacles. Princess Rhennaria clenched her teeth. A quiet keening sound leaked from her like steam from a kettle.

You— she said, choking on the words. My parents—

Are dead. He carefully put the tip of the arrow between the slats of the gate and leveled the crossbow at the girl.

Nnnnno! Nnnnno! the Luminent sobbed. Her hair brightened, pushing back the shadows like a miniature sun. Vamreth squinted against the light but he kept his eye on his target. He always kept his eye on his target.

He pulled the trigger.

No! the Luminent girl cried, jerking the princess backward. The arrow, intended for Rhennaria’s heart, struck her left arm instead and she screamed.

The girls stumbled back—

—and into one of the tentacles. It twitched, then several shot forward. Black tentacles coiled around the girls, over and over, and pulled them into the gulf of utter blackness.

The Luminent’s hair winked out.

They were gone.

Blinking against the sudden darkness, Vamreth lowered the crossbow.

Remarkable, Halenza said, her eyes sparkling with interest.

Well, Vamreth said. That is that. He tossed the crossbow to the nearest fighter, who barely caught it.

Vamreth glanced at Slayter, the young mage apprentice, who stared past the gate into the noktum, where the girls had vanished. He still had the look of concentration on his face.

You don’t see that every day, do you? Vamreth said to the boy.

Slayter turned his focus to Vamreth, like a judgment. Then Slayter smiled a wooden smile. You don’t see it every day. It is remarkable, he repeated.

Vamreth nodded. The first part of his plan—the hardest part—was finished, but there were still many things to do. Toppling a king was one thing, taking the reins of the kingdom was entirely different.

We have work to do, Vamreth said. He returned to the stairway and his men parted for him. He stopped at the entrance.

Halenza! I need your light.

Of course, Your Majesty. Halenza glided past him into the stairway, her little floating symbol burning in front of her.

Vamreth looked past his men to the giant archway with its shifting colors. That was a mystery he’d have to explore later.

He turned on his heel and started up the steps, following the light.

Chapter One

Khyven

Two knights threw open the door of the tavern, and the scent of last night’s rain blew in with them. Khyven heard their boots thump on the rough planks, heard the creak of leather and clink of chainmail as they shifted. He sat with his back to them, but he didn’t need to see them to know where they were.

The room went silent. This dockside drinking hole didn’t see knights very often, and their appearance had rendered the entire place speechless. That was respect. That was what being a knight meant in the kingdom of Usara.

They paused just inside the threshold, perhaps hoping to spook the fearful, but Khyven wasn’t a jumper. He had more in common with the newcomers than those who fled from them.

Ayla, the pretty barmaid sitting across from him, looked past Khyven, her eyes wide. She had been a lively conversationalist a moment ago and he’d been daydreaming about what it would be like to kiss those lips.

Now she looked like an alley cat who’d spotted an alley dog. Reflexively, she stood up, the wooden stool scraping loudly on the floor. She froze, perhaps realizing belatedly that when the powerful—the predators—were in the room, it was best not to draw attention to yourself.

Khyven heard the metallic rustle of the fighters’ chain mail and Ayla’s face drained of color. He envisioned the alley dogs turning at the sound, focusing on her.

She needn’t have worried. They weren’t here for her or any other patron of the Mariner’s Rest. They were here for Khyven.

He had killed a man in the Night Ring two days ago, and not just any man—a duke’s son. The entitled whelp had actually been a talented swordsman, but his ambition had outstripped his skill. And the Night Ring was an unforgiving place to discover such a weakness.

After Khyven had run the boy through, Duke Bericourt had sworn revenge. No doubt he had been waiting for an opportunity to find Khyven alone, vulnerable, to send in his butcher knights.

Men like these, sent to enforce a lord’s will or show his displeasure, were called butcher knights. Usually of the lowest caste—Knights of the Steel—butcher knights didn’t chase glory on the battlefield or renown in the Night Ring. They were sent to do bloody, back-alley work at their lord’s bidding.

Khyven took a deep breath of the smoky air, sipped from the glass of Triadan whiskey, and enjoyed the fading burn down his throat.

The booted feet thumped to a stop next to his table.

Khyven the Unkillable? One of the men spoke, using Khyven’s ringer name—the flamboyant moniker the crowd had laid upon him.

Khyven glanced over his shoulder. Indeed. He had guessed right. The pair were Knights of the Steel.

There were three castes of knights in Usara: Knights of the Sun, Knights of the Dark, and Knights of the Steel, which was the lowest caste and the only one available to most lords. The pair wore chainmail shirts instead of full plate, conical steel caps with nose guards instead of full helms, and leather greaves and bracers.

As predicted, they wore Duke Bericourt’s crest on their left shoulders.

There was a code of honor among knights—even butcher knights. Except in cases of war, civility was required before gutting a man, especially when there were onlookers. Often a knight would give a flowery speech—including the offense he’d been sent to address—before drawing weapons. This was enough to justify murder.

Sometimes there was no flowery speech, but a knight would always at least say their victim’s name. If the victim acknowledged their name, that was all it took to bring out the blades.

Khyven didn’t give them the satisfaction. He took another sip of his whiskey and said nothing.

Did you hear me? the knight demanded, his hand touching his sword hilt.

If Khyven had been a normal ringer—a caged slave thrown into the Night Ring to slay or be slain for the sport of the crowd—these men would probably have forgone their code of honor and drawn their swords already.

But Khyven wasn’t just any ringer. He was the Champion of the Night Ring, and the king had afforded him special privileges because of that fact, like a room at the palace. Khyven had survived forty-eight bouts, the longest string of victories since…

Well, since Vex the Victorious had claimed fifty, won a knighthood and become the king’s personal bodyguard.

Steel scraped on steel, bringing Khyven back to the present. The second knight drew his dagger and placed it against Khyven’s throat.

Ayla gasped and backed away.

You think you’re protected, the second knight growled in Khyven’s ear. You’re not.

Of course, if Khyven didn’t acknowledge his name, there were other ways for the butcher knights to start the fight. If Khyven attacked them, for example, they could retaliate. The powerful could always push a victim into a corner when they needed to. That’s what the powerful did. Khyven had learned that long ago.

That was why, when Khyven had won his fortieth bout and his freedom from the Night Ring, he’d continued fighting, risking his life in every bloody bout. For the prize at the end of ten more bouts. For the power that would come with it.

When Khyven won his fiftieth bout, he would be elevated to knighthood, just like Vex the Victorious. And no one would look at him as a victim again.

The blade broke the skin, just barely, and a bead of blood trickled down Khyven’s neck. His pulse quickened. The familiar euphoria filled him, the rush of pleasure that came with the threat of death.

The euphoria brought vision, and Khyven saw with new eyes, his battle eyes. He saw his foe’s strengths and weaknesses as a swirling, blue-colored wind.

You are Khyven the Unkillable, the man breathed in his ear.

Khyven chuckled.

The second knight’s face turned red. He slashed—

But Khyven was already moving.

He shoved his palm against the man’s fist, arresting the strike. The blade nicked Khyven’s neck, but that wasn’t enough. That wasn’t nearly enough.

Khyven twisted his assailant’s fist and the man grunted in pain. The dagger fell into Khyven’s right hand.

The euphoria sang through him and he saw how this fight would go. The blue wind would show him where he must strike, where his enemies would try to strike.

Khyven shoved the dagger’s flat, steel pommel under the knight’s nose-guard. The heavy steel jammed into that painful spot just below the man’s nose, right above his teeth.

Bone crunched. The knight stumbled back with a cry, hands flying to his face and knocking his helm askew. His legs wobbled and gave out while Khyven delicately pinched the pommel of the falling man’s sheathed sword between two fingers, lifting it from its scabbard.

With an outraged cry, the first knight pulled his blade and lunged. He was fast, but the blue wind swirled, showing Khyven where he needed to be. He danced with it—one step ahead of it—exploiting the man’s weaknesses.

Khyven’s new opponent was left-handed, which gave him an advantage against those who didn’t expect it. Also, he was fast. Those were his strengths, but he leaned on them like a crutch, and that in itself was a weakness.

The man thrust at Khyven: a clean, straight strike. Khyven twisted, let the blade come within an inch of him. It licked past his chest like a snake’s tongue as he slid inside the man’s guard. This close, swordsmanship didn’t matter. Belly-to-belly with the stunned knight, Khyven wrapped his arm around his foe’s sword arm and wrenched upward.

The man gasped, jumping onto his tiptoes to escape the joint lock. His sword clanged to the ground.

Khyven kneed him in the groin.

The knight doubled over with a grunt and backed up. The agony of a groin strike always came with a delay, but the realization came immediately. He gave Khyven a wide-eyed look of disbelief… then the pain hit him.

With a shuddering gag, he slid to his knees. To his credit, he pulled his dagger, but the hilt clacked on the wood floor as he fell on all fours, gasping for breath, twisting and hoping for some position that would ease the pain. Unfortunately for him, no such position existed.

The first knight collapsed onto his side, groaning pitifully.

Khyven picked up the man’s sword and added it to his collection.

By this time, the second knight had staggered to his feet, helmet lopsided, nose broken, blood pouring down his chin. He blinked one eye and then the other like he was trying to get at least one of them to work correctly.

Khyven tossed the dagger hilt-first at Broken-Nose, who yelped and dodged. The dagger hit the bar and thunked to the floor.

Well done, Khyven said. Try again. He offered the man’s sword next, hilt-first. Broken-Nose stared at it like it was a rainbow-colored snake. Khyven raised an eyebrow. Yes? No? Would you like it back?

The knight took the sword with a shaking hand. Khyven dropped the other blade next to Kneed-in-the-Groin, who was still doubled-up, hands cradling his jewels.

The euphoria faded, the blue wind vanished, and Khyven let out a breath. He walked back to the stool, sat down, picked up his glass of Triadan whiskey, and winked at Ayla.

Khyven was always surrounded by enemies, but that was a good thing. If you remembered everyone was your enemy, you were never surprised when they attacked.

A shuffling step behind him told him Broken-Nose had regained some of his courage and, just maybe, was thinking about jumping back into the fray.

Come at me again, Khyven said darkly, and I’ll pretend we’re in the Night Ring.

The shuffling step stopped.

Go back to Duke Bericourt and tell him his son chose his path, and that he fought well. The duke shouldn’t sully that with back-alley theatrics.

Khyven paused for a breathless moment, the whiskey halfway to his lips as he listened for what choice the knight would make. There were several awkward thumps as Kneed-in-the-Groin got painfully to his feet but Broken-Nose didn’t come any closer. They were afraid of him now.

That is power, Khyven thought. It’s the only thing that ensures safety. The only thing that really matters, in the end.

He downed the rest of his whiskey and stood. A smile had begun on Ayla’s pretty face. He nodded to her. Much as he’d like to explore what that smile might avail him it was time for