Nalvin had fallen.

  The bloody slaughter still raged in the main square, the proud, solitary chapel still stood with its shattered stained glass, a bastion of Aktida amid the chaos, but it was already clear to everyone: the hopeless battle was lost.

  Ringus Felm sat inside the chapel among the wounded who had been dragged in before the doors were barricaded. Healers bustled about, moans echoed through the air, and outside, on the blood-drenched pavement, the final act of the brutal drama unfolded.

  The pirates fanned out through the streets, searching through houses where everything that could burn had already burned, and looted what little remained. Most of the treasure had been taken away by the residents, but enough was left behind to satisfy the greedy crowd that had done its filthy job and now basked in victory.

  Gathered in a tight ring around the chapel, Nalvin’s defenders fought for every inch of ground against the army Cassander had assembled for the final blow. The admiral himself was there, fighting in the front lines, and the Alvens fell one by one, struck down by his supernatural reflexes and lightning-fast movements.

  The one-eyed pirate seemed invincible. Arrows bounced off his dragonhide cuirass, spears and stray sword blows spared him, and his very presence on the battlefield lifted the pirates’ spirits, driving them to fight even more savagely. His cutlass flashed like a streak of black lightning at the heart of the battle.

  From the upper tiers of the chapel, defenders rained arrows down on the attackers, along with stones, chairs, benches, whatever they could find. The statues of saints standing in the hall had been used to block the doors being pounded by enemies... and allies. One soldier crawled on his knees to the porch, pounding on the door and screaming in a hoarse, pain-filled voice, begging to be let in, banging in vain on the unyielding doors until a pirate struck him down.

  Others fought on, dueling to the death against multiple opponents, knowing they would die, and pouring everything they had into this final stand. No more than a hundred soldiers remained below, exhausted, wounded, ready to surrender, or simply bare their necks for the killing blow.

  Viggo lay in the chapel hall on the cold floor of the makeshift hospital, groaning through clenched teeth while his horrific leg wound and shattered bone were cleaned. Remiz sat nearby, slumped against the wall. Two bullets had just been removed from his shoulder—he’d been hit while dragging Viggo to safety under fire. He hadn’t been allowed to return to battle, and didn’t especially want to, knowing that only those in the hospital now would leave the city alive.

  Nalvin had already fallen. Nothing else mattered.

  ***

  Kairu walked among the charred ruins and bare black walls of once-luxurious mansions. Here and there, fire still smoldered, wooden beams flamed, the last embers flickered. Dead Alvens and pirates lay on the barricades, those who hadn’t made it to the square. Smoke still rose from the northern part of the city, but here darkness and desolation reigned. Only the clash of blades still echoed in the square.

  Then he saw it—the square where the last stage of the battle for Nalvin was playing out. No longer two armies thousands strong, but a weary handful of Aktida’s soldiers against the last pirate squad not yet turned to looting. Kairu clenched his jaw and rushed forward, bursting into the fight from behind. For a moment, the pirates were clearly stunned—just enough time for Kairu to reach the tight circle of defending fighters. But when they realized it was only one man, Cassander’s soldiers roared and attacked again.

  And a new round of slaughter began…

  Kairu was instantly drenched in sweat, parrying pirate strikes. Blades reached him, grazed him, but so far spared him any deep wounds. They were enclosed in a tightening ring, forced back toward the chapel walls. All they could do now was fight, send as many enemies as possible to the grave before following them themselves. Kairu managed to kill two, maybe three with almost no resistance, but his strength was fading fast. He locked blades with another giant in rusted armor. A hoarse grunt tore from his chest.

  He deflected one clumsy attack, then another. From the corner of his eye, he spotted an enemy on the left, spun around mid-strike, swung his sword behind his back, spun sharply and knocked the weapon from his opponent’s hand. The pirate howled, staring at the fingers flying from his ruined hand. Kairu didn’t even think, he stepped in and drove his sword into the man’s chest. Without a glance at the falling corpse, he hurled himself toward the next enemy, and then the next, fighting desperately, knowing he wouldn’t survive, only caring to take as many of them with him as he could…

  Then Orwell Cassander appeared—and began to fight personally, dodging dozens of blades with terrifying ease. At some point, he suddenly turned to Kairu and lunged at him in a monstrous pirouette.

  Kairu didn’t even try to block the blow. The pirates scattered, clearing the way for their admiral. Cassander stumbled, turned around, and looked with surprise from his one eye at the target that had slipped away. Kairu wasn’t thinking anymore. He lunged forward, striking from the side with the automatic precision Rita had taught him. His sword grated against the dragonhide, slicing fibers.

  Cassander leaped back. He deflected the next desperate blow like swatting a feather. Kairu staggered back, barely staying on his feet. The pirates stared at him like he was some kind of miracle. He gasped loudly, then, with a strangled shout, charged at Cassander again, not realizing he was fighting the greatest swordsman of the Western Sea.

  He never saw how Cassander dodged his swing this time and slashed deep through his cuirass, exposing a bloody, battered chest. The armor was a burden, but all Kairu did was tear off his helmet. The pirate in front of him stood calmly, almost smiling, the others slowly lowering their weapons, watching a spectacle. Or a cat playing with a mouse.

  Kairu roared again, jumped at Cassander, then suddenly halted, dodged the blade just in time, and delivered a short strike from the side. Blood sprayed from a deep scratch on the pirate’s forearm.

  Cassander spun with inhuman speed, shocking for a man so massive. He slashed upward, forcing Kairu to leap, then punched him in the chest with his left fist. Kairu hit the pavement hard, his cuirass crushing his ribcage. Cassander was already upon him, Kairu barely rolled aside from another devastating blow. Cassander's cutlass struck the cobblestones, causing sparks to fly. By some miracle, Kairu got back on his feet, stepped sideways and attacked again. This time, the one-eyed pirate blocked, crouching and raising his enormous blade. He made an imperceptible movement, then seemed to soar, striking in a way that would have sent Kairu’s head flying far beyond the city walls.

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  Kairu ducked and cried out, feeling the sword shave off a thick clump of hair and skin just above his ear. It didn’t even hurt, only a flood of blood poured down his neck. He stepped back, holding his sword defensively. The pirate opposite him stopped, calmly toying with his sword’s hilt. He wasn’t even out of breath.

  "Well, boy, want some more? Or shall I send you home to mommy?"

  Kairu lunged at him, unleashing a flurry of blows, no longer thinking of technique or defense or feints. The pirate caught him almost immediately. Kairu’s head rang, stars danced in his eyes as another strike slammed into his thigh. Only the angle of the blow saved his leg—it dented the iron greaves but didn’t cut through. Kairu stumbled. Bit his lip. Limping, he circled, staring into his opponent’s single eye.

  "It’s time to end this," the pirate said, grinning.

  Kairu struck again. Blades clashed, he pressed forward, but the pirate’s strength was overwhelming. His bones ached as the enemy parried his blow, then the next, and then launched his own attack. Baring his teeth, the pirate leaped forward, and his cutlass flashed like black lightning, crashing down on Kairu’s raised blade. Kairu crouched under the force, the cutlass slid off, then struck again from the other side, and then a whirlwind of attacks came down on him. Barely able to think, only managing to block at the last possible moment, he fought off death with pure reflex.

  The pirates laughed, hoarsely shouting encouragement to their comrade. Fire raged everywhere. The air was made of biting, eye-burning smoke and ash. Cassander spun, his blade slicing the air with a whistle, and in his one eye, cold and dark as the ocean, reflected the fiery inferno around them.

  They clashed swords again, and Kairu couldn't hold on. His blade slipped, and the cutlass slashed across his chest, tearing through his crushed armor. Kairu fell—and knew he wouldn’t be able to get back up.

  The cutlass came down. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling steel slice skin from his shoulder. A heavy boot kicked him in the chest, then in the leg, barely missing his groin, then in the face. Kairu rolled over, gritting his teeth and spitting out mud and blood. He took another blow, getting used to the pain. He decided: no matter what, it would be a silent death. He rolled onto his back. A boot struck his stomach. His vision darkened, his ears heard nothing but a ringing that came from somewhere inside.

  Above him he saw a smoke-covered sky, Cassander’s sneering face, and the raised cutlass. He clenched the sword's hilt with difficulty. Rolled over. The blade narrowly missed him, soared back up, and he raised his arm just in time. The blades met again.

  Cassander put monstrous strength into that strike. And Kairu—everything he had left, enough for his hand, but not for the sword. The vibrating resonance of steel struck his bones and exploded inside. His father’s sword could not withstand the force of the pirate’s cutlass. With a sorrowful clang and screech, it broke in two. Kairu’s eyes widened in horror. The steel blade flew off somewhere, clattering across the stones. In his cramped, aching hand remained only the hilt.

  His hand fell limply.

  Kairu opened his eyes. So this was it. The inglorious end.

  The cutlass rose again. Inevitable as a guillotine blade, as death itself. It whistled down, aiming for his bare neck.

  An icy wind slapped his face. A chill swept over his throat.

  The blade passed an inch away without taking his head.

  A haze drifted across Kairu’s eyes.

  ***

  "Kid," said Cassander, taking a deep breath and wiping sweat from his forehead. "Did you really think you had a chance? Or maybe you didn’t even understand who you were fighting? Then I can forgive you. Know this—you have received a great honor: Orwell Cassander himself accepted your challenge. That must be fate. A great future awaits you, boy. The future of a fine swordsman, oh yes."

  A pale, dark-haired youth lay at his feet. His eyes were glazed, though his chest still rose and fell. Blood streaked his mangled face, and his bruised hands. In his right fist—the hilt of his sword, clutched in a spasm.

  "You are brave," the admiral said with scorn, "but you still have much to learn. And believe me, you will never surpass Orwell Cassander. So be more careful next time. I've changed my mind. I was going to play with you and then kill you. Creatively. But I grant you your life. Live, boy. Your death won’t change anything."

  "Yes!" he turned to his pirates and to the handful of tired, bloodied warriors. "Let them go. Don’t kill them. I grant them my mercy."

  The pirates slowly, reluctantly sheathed their swords. A dozen soldiers stood motionless, dazed. Cassander approached the doors of a solitary, proud, silent chapel; the crowd of pirates parted to let him through. Someone swung a saber near the face of an Alven warrior. Cassander growled:

  "If a single hair falls from their heads, I’ll hang you all! Stand down. No movement!"

  The chapel remained silent, its dark windows grimly watching, their broken stained glass reflecting the fire consuming the city. Cassander stepped closer, glanced at the group of soldiers, looked upward. He knew that there, in the half-light of Nalvin’s last unbroken stronghold, every word of his was now being heard.

  "You have lost," he said loudly. "Do you hear me? You’ve lost. I know you already have escape routes prepared. There are few of you left. I could break down these doors and hang every one of you, every survivor. I could let my men kill those standing now at your gates, the last ones who dared resist. You abandoned them, left them as your rearguard. But I see no need for their deaths. Open the door. Take your wounded. I won’t let my soldiers fight you. Your king will still need you in battles to come…" He paused, waiting for a response. The chapel remained silent.

  "I give my word of honor. Pirate’s honor. Or, if you prefer, an officer’s honor, since I am now an officer fighting on the other side of the barricades. Troops! Fall back from the gates. Leave the square!"

  He stepped away slowly, cast one more glance at the youth who stirred, lifting himself blindly, unable to stand.

  "Live," he repeated calmly. "Your sword is broken, you are defeated, your pitiful life is in my hands. I’m sparing it. Better go home, to daddy and mommy, if they’re still alive. And don’t you ever dare stand in the way of Orwell Cassander again. Because next time, I won’t give you this chance."

  The pirates slowly, grudgingly turned away, vanishing into the deserted, ash-covered streets. The fire still smoldered, and somewhere in the distance buildings collapsed with a crash. In the leaden sky, touched with cold-white sunlight, blue clouds appeared, mixed with the thinning smoke. Hoarse voices rang out, drunken arguments, fights over spoils. Only when Cassander was alone, turned away, and strolled calmly after his retreating army with his entourage, did the chapel doors groan open.

  Remiz ran out first. He rushed to Kairu, who was crawling in a puddle of blood, lifted him, and cast one last look at the cursed city. Then turned away, stepping back into the chapel. The soldiers left at the entrance rushed inside; someone collapsed on the threshold, and others dragged them in, healers and medics hurrying to help. It was quiet now, no blades clashing, no cannons roaring. Only the crackling of scattered fires, the moans of the wounded, and the soft weeping of survivors. Monks in black mourning robes came out and began dragging away the dead Alvens scattered across the square.

  From the roof of the chapel, a cloud of ravens took flight, flapping their wings chaotically, croaking hoarsely as they flew off to the corpse-strewn battlefield.