His appointed foe slain, Cyrus moved to aid Arn, but he should have known Thorda’s vaunted Heretic would have no trouble with a mere four soldiers. Three were already dead, and the fourth about to be. The soldier did succeed in punching his spear into Arn’s long coat, though Cyrus was not sure if it found purchase. The same could not be said for the double-fisted smash of Arn’s gauntlets upon the man’s shoulders. Bones snapped, so many it sounded like a bundle of twigs breaking. The soldier howled, his shield and spear falling from his limp hands. Arn caved in the man’s chest to end his scream. Lungs suddenly punctured and full of fluid, he dropped, retching pitifully for a few seconds as the light faded from his eyes.

“You all right?” Cyrus asked. There was so much blood and gore everywhere, he couldn’t begin to guess what belonged to whom.

Arn lifted his arms and glanced side to side. His coat hung down to his ankles, and though it appeared made of dark leather, that was only the deceitful exterior. Thorda had decided that Arn could not sneak about the city wearing a paragon’s platemail. Instead he’d lined the interior of the coat with a single sheet of chainmail. Cyrus had worn it out of curiosity, and though it hung comfortably across his back and shoulders, he couldn’t imagine fighting with that additional thirty pounds weighing him down.

“Nothing bleeding,” Arn said. “Can’t ask for more than that.”

Cyrus cut the mark of the Vagrant across the soldiers’ foreheads. They weren’t his kills, but after so many missions for Thorda, he’d long since learned to ignore his guilt in taking credit for the actions of others. When finished, he hurried to Arn’s side. The first time they’d entered the Twin Sanctuary earlier that night, Mari had crept along the roof in Lioness form, dropped in through a high window, and removed the heavy iron latches locking the double doors shut. This time, Arn strode right up and kicked their center with his heel, smashing them inward.