Return of the Crimson Guard

She came to the edge of the crater blasted from the plain and there she stopped. Smoke still threaded from the blackened bare dirt after its astounding explosion. She raised her face to peer up for a time into the clear, so deceptively peaceful, pale-blue sky and suddenly Possum understood. Ah, yes. The last. With Tayschrenn now gone. Choss dead, Toc reported dead, Amaron missing, and Urko reported fled before he could be arrested, or, perhaps, pardoned. Leaving Surly/Laseen. The last survivor; single remaining representative of that generation that had built so grandly. And victor. Now un-contested ruler. Empress.

Was she providing the final irresistible bait to end everything now for ever and for good… herself? Possum now knew he was not alone in his watching. She had told him who also watched. Another, even more carefully hidden presence waited. And had been waiting for some time now. He was poised for the appearance of one man and one only — such was the price of Laseen. The question was, would that man bite?

Of course he would.

Possum eased his blades in their wrist-sheaths. Now. It must be now. This would be his last opportunity before the army clasped Laseen to its bloody, battered but victorious breast.

And the man did bite. But not as Possum had assumed.

A sharp blow to his back was Possum's last sensation. He was flung forward stunned by the power and sudden violence of that strike. Vital seconds passed before his eyes fluttered open once more to view through kicked-up dust two figures enmeshed in a dance of exquisite choreography.

It was the one they wanted; the only one who remained a true threat and whom they would always be watching their backs for. Master assassin and High Mage of the Crimson Guard. Dancer's rival all those years ago — Cowl.

He was astonishing to watch. Blades bared, darting, feinting, and Laseen blocking with kicks that lashed out to punish chest and head. A gesture from Cowl and Warren magics wavered the air like heat ripples only to dissipate to nothing upon Laseen. Of course, the lingering Otataral dust. That useless effort from Cowl drew him a blow to his head that sent him spinning from his feet. Yet he was up again, unfazed, and closed, leaping. A blurred series of slashes from him, spinning, knives reversed; Laseen slipping each, hands jabbing, and the edge of a foot slamming Cowl back. But her shirt and trousers now hung slashed — blood bloomed upon her front, dripped from her hands.

Possum decided that perhaps he'd watched for long enough. He stood, shook himself. He had been delivered a terrible blow. Mortal had it struck true — deadly still should it not be treated, but he had the minutes he needed. For it had always been his habit when wreathed in Mockra to appear a good hand's width taller than his true height. He drew his wrist-knives and joined the fight.

A flash of surprise from Cowl's slitted dark eyes was Possum's reward as he closed, lead foot sliding up. Cowl stepped edgeways, a blade directed to each of them. But neither Possum nor Laseen pressed their advantage; each crouched, content to guard themselves. The master assassin's head tilted just a fraction as he considered this. Then his eyes widened.

He threw himself sideways but not quickly enough as a new figure appeared, leaping from a Warren to lash out, kicking him in his side, sending him tumbling down into the blast crater. This new figure launched himself after, scarecrow thin, tattered clothes flapping, his long white hair a dirty tangle. He leapt upon Cowl and the two slashed at each other, dirt and dust billowing in a blur of shifting feet, rolls, sweeps, grips attempted and broken, and throws.

A kick from Cowl sent the other flying backwards, but in the air an arm snapped forward and a thin blade slammed into the Guard assassin. He gestured, disappeared into a Warren and the other, landing cat-like on his feet, white hair flying, waved to disappear as well.

And so they are off chasing each other across Realms and Warrens. Cowl and Topper, hated enemies and rivals from their first meeting. Will Topper finally succeed where Dancer failed and ascend to the peak of his calling? Will it always be Dancer and Cowl — never him? Will we ever see either of them again? Myself, I hope not! Possum fell to his knees and a hand, his chest cramped. Gods! He couldn't breathe! Punctured a lung, he was sure of it.