Haern turned a corner, and watched the child slip inside a warehouse. Approaching the door, Haern slipped into the shadows and looked through the crack near the hinges. A faint lantern burned inside, and from what he could make out, two other children were within. Hoping it was Brann’s hideout, and not a simple gang of orphans, he drew his sabers. There would be no stealthy entrance. This wasn’t a time for quiet deaths in the night.

He slammed the door open with his shoulder at full charge. Without slowing he took in the surroundings, his finely honed instincts guiding him. The storehouse was full of crates and bags of grains, limiting his maneuverability. At least twenty children gathered together in a circle, and before them, his dirty face covered with a beard, was Brann. The man looked up. His jaw dropped, and then he turned to run.

“Stop him!” Brann shouted to the children. Haern swore as they drew small knives and daggers. He leapt between them, twirling his cloak as a distraction. A sweeping kick took out three, and then he pushed through the opening. The storehouse was divided in two by a high wall, and Brann vanished through the doorway in the center. Haern raced after, again slamming aside the door with his shoulder. To his surprise, Brann was not the coward he’d believed. His sword lashed out from behind the door. Haern’s speed was too great, though, and he leapt beyond Brann’s reach, pivoted on his heels, and jumped again.

Brann was only a gutter snake, vermin who bullied with numbers and stabbed from shadows. Haern had fought his kind, knew their tactics. With three strikes Brann’s sword fell from a bleeding wrist. Two kicks shattered a kneecap, and then he fell. Haern clutched his hair and lifted it back, his saber pressing against Brann’s throat.