Warlands. Emel was in league with this half-blood. Darmouth was surrounded by betrayal, with only Omasta to depend on. He slapped the old tapestry aside at the bottom of the stairwell and emerged into the old sergeant's office.

There were his wolfhounds asleep on the floor. Kana, the tallest, raised his head and blinked, looking dazed and tired. With no time to stop, Darmouth hurried out the door into the storage area. He headed straight through the archway for his family's crypt.

The Hall of Traitors had the heaviest door in the keep.

Darmouth pulled out the key to unlock the ornate door, but he fumbled for a moment. Once it was open, he stepped inside.

Warm orange light washed over him from small braziers on the columns that were always kept lit for the dead. There were iron braces on each side of the door, and he reached for the oak bar resting against the wall. The door swung sharply inward, catching his shoulder, and Darmouth stumbled back.

He caught himself on his father's crypt, and his shoulder throbbed from the impact.

Leesil-that mongrel traitor-stood in the doorway, panting.

He looked like some mad creature out of the forested hills below the mountains. His hood was pushed all the way back, and white-blond hair framed a narrow face that glistened with sweat. His amber eyes sparked in the braziers' glow.

Darmouth's rage faltered. He knew what Leesil was capable of.

Leesil took a step into the room, and his gaze shifted between the crypts of Darmouth's father and grandfather. His eyes grew calm.

Many years had passed, and Leesil's face had changed. A strange realization occurred to Darmouth.

He looked so much like his mother… born out of treacherous blood.

Shouts and footfalls echoed into the council hall from the main entryway as Magiere headed down the concealed stairway. She heard both Chap and Emel close behind her.

Her eyesight was still sharp in the darkness. At the bottom of the stairs she saw the opening covered by a hanging cloth and swatted it aside. She stepped out into a room with a chair, table, and broken quills. They had returned to the abandoned office adjacent to the storage area.

The two wolfhounds slept near the door. Both dogs looked drained and tired. Magiere ignored them and hurried out into the storage area.

She glanced about, searching for Leesil. Stepping between the piled crates, she saw that the ornate door through the center archway to her right was open.

Leesil stood with his back to her just inside Darmouth's family crypt. And Magiere saw the tyrant beyond two raised stone coffins.

The sight brought only partial relief. Leesil had cornered Darmouth in a place they could secure. They need only lock the warlord in and wait for the keep's contingent to eventually flush out the Anmaglahk. But Magiere wasn't about to leave Leesil in there alone. She reached the center archway, only steps from the door.

Two gray forms dropped from the ceiling inside the crypt and landed to the outsides of each coffin.

Magiere froze. Both were dressed alike in tied-up cloaks, cowls, and face wraps a color between charcoal gray and forest green. The one to the right was taller than Darmouth.

Anmaglahk. They'd been waiting there. Somehow they'd known Darmouth would come to this place.

The sound of distant voices and feet echoed from the north and south stairwells. Magiere couldn't tell if they came this way or not, and there was no time to make certain. If Darmouth's soldiers interfered, trying to take Leesil, she wasn't sure how far these elves would go to finish their mission. The soldiers' misguided efforts would make things worse.

Magiere glanced at Emel and Chap coming up behind her. The color in Emel's face drained when he looked past her and into the crypt.

"Keep out anyone who comes down," she said, and hoped the two of them could.

"Wait-" Emel began.

Magiere darted inside the crypt and slammed the door shut. The last things she saw as it closed were Chap's perked ears and astonished face.

All eyes in the room flicked toward her once.

With her back against the door, Magiere spotted the wooden bar. She grabbed it and slammed it down in the braces, locking them all inside.

Leesil pulled one punching blade and held his empty hand out toward Darmouth. "Get back."

The two Anmaglahk shifted toward the tyrant along the outsides of the stone coffins. One might get to Darmouth the moment Leesil committed to going after the other. And behind him was Magiere.

He knew how strong she was in her dhampir state, but he was afraid it wouldn't be enough in close quarters against one of the elves. She needed more room than he did to wield her blade.

Leesil took in the lay of the room. To the left and right were archways between plain and stout stone columns. He'd seen the two blocked-up doors outside, and there had once been three separate rooms here. The spaces beyond the archways were dark, as the braziers upon the columns spilled most of their light into the center space holding the coffins. Perhaps Darmouth's hunger to legitimize his rulership extended to this room, where he would lay to rest the dead who would mark his descendants as true kings.

The far back wall was dimly lit, and Leesil saw a series of black pockets, row upon row of stone cubbies. Each one contained something the brazier light couldn't quite reveal.

Darmouth remained poised, watching everyone in the room. Then his gaze settled on Leesil.

Leesil went hollow inside when he saw any sign of fear fade from the man's eyes.

Darmouth gripped the stout hilts of both war daggers on his belt, and pulled the long blades from their sheaths.

"Come on, boy," he said. "I'll send you to your mother!"

Leesil's thoughts ground to a halt in confusion. His mother was with her people. What did Darmouth mean?

The warlord's weapons were as long as his forearms, the blades' bases wider than a hand's palm. Their edges ran straight to pointed tips, with a tapered ridge along the middle of each blade to reinforce its strength.

Darmouth was older now. Leesil couldn't see the man holding his own against one Anmaglahk in close quarters, even in his prime, let alone two. Leesil's panic rose as he realized Darmouth was now ready to die… just to kill him.

Both elves watched Leesil out of the corners of their eyes, but their prime attention remained upon their target. Leesil couldn't see their mouths, but the tall and solid one had strands of silver hair hanging down his forehead from under his cowl. There were long scars around one of his eyes.

"Stand aside," he said to Leesil and pointed at Darmouth. "This one's life is forfeit, and you, of all who breathe, should have no reason to save him."

His manner was different from Sgaile, the Anmaglahk whom Leesil had encountered in the city of Bela. This one was cold but polite, as if making a request and waiting to hear Leesil's reply. The tall elf spoke in perfect Belaskian with his lilting accent. His words struck Leesil.

This one knew him-knew at least who he was-knew some small part of his life enslaved to the tyrant.

"I can't," Leesil answered, with a fleeting hope that reason might work. "Kill him, and the people here will suffer more in the following conflict than they suffer under his rule."

The elder one spoke quick Elvish words to his companion and then fell silent. Leesil knew that the time for talk had ended. Both elves ducked through the archways into the dark spaces beyond.

They were trying to close in on Darmouth from both sides.

Magiere raced by Leesil on his right, heading after the elder Anmaglahk, and Leesil almost cried out. He didn't want her facing the one so obviously the superior. The younger elf lunged at Darmouth from the far archway on the left, and Leesil had no choice but to run to the tyrant's