It was a hypnotizing dance. Rachel had never imagined such concise and deadly motion, such calm focus amid turmoil. Neither had Galloran’s enemies. All who drew near were slain with ruthless efficiency. No armor could slow the gleaming blade. Helmets parted. Chain mail was pierced. Galloran never paused. Every moment of combat seemed choreographed in his favor. And he was not alone.

Dorsio burst through the door with a crossbow in each hand, just after Galloran drew his sword. The nimble bodyguard produced a second pair of smaller crossbows after dropping guards near the prisoners. Once those quarrels had been launched, he went to work near Galloran, a knife in each hand. Whenever he threw one, a replacement instantly materialized, pulled from within his cloak.

When a seedman burst through a nearby window, Rachel thought it was Lodan at first. After a moment, she recognized that it was Jasher, looking much younger than she remembered. He didn’t enter with crossbows.

He brought orantium.

Jasher hurled the first sphere across the room to a corner where a group of soldiers had previously stood huddled in conversation. They now had weapons out, but seemed uncertain about where to employ them. The mineral gleamed a blinding white before a deafening explosion thundered through the room. Soldiers took flight, splintered chairs and tables filled the air, and heat washed over Rachel.

The second sphere landed near the bar with similar results. Other explosions boomed upstairs and outside, accompanied by hoarse shouts and the shattering of glass.

Guards who had been initially frozen with disbelief now seemed overwhelmed by the sudden devastation. Swords were raised uncertainly as confused soldiers sought to assess the greatest threat. To an extent their numbers worked against them. Most men seemed to expect another to solve the problem, but nobody was getting the job done. Those who rushed Galloran were cut down by an expertise that rendered their best efforts woefully incompetent. Those who hung back or sought cover became targets for orantium. Jasher seemed to have an endless supply.

The same initial shock that had temporarily incapacitated many of the guards had also frozen Rachel. She suddenly noticed that her companions were huddling together, trying to keep out of the way. Corinne had knocked over a long table that offered some shelter. Rachel mouthed some words against her gag, speaking more with her mind than her voice. The command tipped four tables and dragged them into position to form a crude fort around the bound captives.

Nedwin vaulted down the stairs, a long knife in one hand, a sphere of orantium in the other. Apparently he had been responsible for the repeated explosions above. A gash on his forehead sheeted his face with blood, but his eyes were alert. He threw the orantium sphere and raced to the fort of tables, deftly cutting his way past a pair of conscriptors to get there.

He went straight to Rachel, parting her gag without slicing her skin, then freeing her wrists with a second quick movement. He moved to Drake next. Rachel dimly realized she had been freed first because Nedwin felt she could make the biggest difference.

She scanned the room. By necessity, Jasher was now defending himself with his sword rather than hurling orantium. She had seen him fight before, and he had seemed incredible, and he was fighting well today, but compared to Galloran he appeared inefficient. Three guards had taken up a position behind the bar and were getting ready to use their crossbows. A sharp command from Rachel brought one of the huge mirrors down on top of them.

On the other side of the room, not far from the entrance, many of the remaining soldiers were pressing toward Galloran and Dorsio. Galloran fought with the same skill and exuberance as when he had first entered the room, but Dorsio had an arrow in his back and a gruesome wound in his side. As he stood between Galloran and two enemies, Rachel watched a sword skewer the silent bodyguard.

Fury flooded through her, and with a shouted command, a nearby table flipped sideways and rammed the two assailants into the wall. With a fresh Edomic command she set the entire table aflame and then sent it hurtling across the room, crashing against soldiers like a demonic bulldozer.

Rachel felt a thrill as the ambitious commands worked, but the exertion left her feeling like she had sprinted a mile uphill. She fell to one knee and tried to stay conscious.

The flaming table had helped break the soldiers. Drake had joined the fight now, and Tark, Farfalee, Jason, Io, and Aram seized weapons from fallen enemies as soon as Nedwin cut them free. The soldiers were no longer trying to win. They were trying to escape.

Rachel crouched behind an overturned table, trying to get her breath back, trying to stop the room from spinning, hoping that some scurrying soldier wouldn’t stumble across her in this weakened state. She smelled burning wood. She was unsure how much time had passed when Nedwin helped her to her feet, the wound on his forehead bound with her former gag. She began to cough. Smoke billowed everywhere. The inn was on fire. Nedwin hurriedly escorted her to the road. Most of the others were already outside.

Drake and Ferrin exited the inn, their swords to the backs of Conrad and Torvic. A few other soldiers, who had apparently surrendered, knelt in the street, minded by Tark, Jasher, and Farfalee. Rachel overheard Drake telling Nedwin that he had found Ferrin in the storeroom, restraining Conrad with his arms and Torvic with his legs. Ferrin explained that he had quietly unbound himself inside the sack and then attacked his interviewers when he heard the commotion. Drake took Kerick’s seed from Conrad.

Galloran strode out of the inn, cradling Dorsio in his arms. He laid the lifeless body gently on the street. It was still morning. Flames leaped from several of the upper windows of the inn. Smoke leaked into the otherwise clear sky.

Galloran came to stand before the new prisoners, regarding them stormily. Rachel realized that the mismatched eyes had been a deliberate insult. The glaring discrepancy emphasized that his vision had been restored by displacers. “Do you surrender to us?” Galloran asked.

The prisoners responded in the affirmative. Except for Conrad.

“I will not surrender,” Conrad said stiffly. “I was disgracefully withheld from combat. It was my right to face my adversaries. I must have satisfaction.”

“Let me,” Drake said.

“Galloran,” Conrad demanded. “I challenge Galloran to a duel.”

“Swords?” Galloran asked.

“Naturally.”

“Now?”

“Immediately,” Conrad responded.

“Very well,” Galloran said.

“No!” Farfalee protested.

“He’s not a duke anymore,” Jason complained.