But Alberich was bleeding from the shoulder now. Skif couldn’t tell how bad the wound was, and Alberich showed no sign of weakness, but the leather tunic was slashed there, and bloody flesh showed beneath the dark leather whenever he moved that arm. Skif’s throat closed with fear. Somewhere deep inside he’d been certain that Alberich was invulnerable. But he wasn’t. He could be hurt. And if he could be hurt—he could die.

At that moment, the Guildmaster finally noticed that his prizes had escaped.

“Stop them!” he shouted at his men. “Don’t let them get away!”

Skif froze in the doorway; but he needn’t have worried. No one was taking orders now. The fighters were too busy with Alberich to pay any attention to Skif, although they redoubled their efforts to take the Weaponsmaster down.

:Skif, run! Get out of there now!: Cymry cried.

“No!” he said aloud. He couldn’t go—not now—he might be able to do something—

The lantern flames flickered, and shadows danced on the walls, a demonic echo of the death dance in the center of the room. It was confusing; too confusing. Once again Skif felt for his knives and hesitated.

Alberich was tiring; oh, it didn’t show in how he moved, but there was sweat rolling down his face. He had taken another cut, this time across his scalp, and blood mingled with the drops of sweat that spattered down onto the dirt floor with every movement.

Skif still didn’t dare throw the knives, even with one of the opponents down. He edged away from the door, and looked frantically for something else he could throw.

Alberich’s eyes glittered, and his mouth was set in a wild and terrible smile. He looked more than half mad, and Skif couldn’t imagine why his opponents weren’t backing away just from his expression alone, much less the single-minded ferocity with which he was fighting. He did not look human, that much was certain. If this was how he always looked when he fought in earnest, no wonder people were afraid of him.

No wonder he had never needed to draw a blade in those tavern brawls.

Skif’s eye fell on a pile of dirty bowls stacked against the wall on the other side of the doorway—the remains, perhaps, of a meal the child snatchers had finished. It didn’t matter; they were heavy enough to be weapons, and they were within reach.

He snatched one up and waited for his opportunity. It came sooner than he’d hoped, as Alberich suddenly rushed one of the three men, making him stumble backward in a hasty retreat. That broke the swirling dance of steel for a moment, broke the pattern long enough for Skif to fling the bowl at the man’s head.