“RIGHT HERE, DOG,” I said. The gaoler saw me then, and his face screwed up with surprise and anger.

“What’s this? You don’t belong here!”

More boots on the stairs above. I held my ground, for what else was there to do? The gaoler came clattering down the stairs, torch up high, and the chained faces drew back in terror from his wrath. He tore the cudgel out of his belt, but hesitated when he saw Bloodfang.

“How did you get here? That tunnel was sealed off!”

I started forward. The radiance in my blood was warm, a blessing in the gripping dark of the dungeon. It whispered courage where my own might have failed, lending strength to each stride. The gaoler’s outrage was a candle beside the rage that burned within me. Rage at the treatment of these people; of the fear and anguish in their starved and shriveled faces.

Rage that some other mortal would dare make Hell worse that it already was.

The gaoler fell back before me, calling for help. More boots on the stairs, but I didn’t care. Bloodfang leaped with wolfish bloodthirst from my shoulder, coming around in a murderous arc. The gaoler was a coward, but he was no fool. He ducked low under the swing, dodging by a hair, and swatted at me with his cudgel. I danced back, planting my foot and driving forward in exchange. The greatsword’s tip punched through his tattered jerkin and plunged into his heart, eliciting only a surprised little whimper. His hand, outflung and ready to strike with the cudgel, went flaccid, and the club clattered to the floor.

“Dorel!” cried the man on the stairs. He leaped down the remainder, giving me only a breath to jerk Bloodfang free and retreat. This one was not as slovenly. He wore similar black leathers, but his coat was reinforced with rings of rusting steel. He bore a small buckler shield on one hand, and a short sword in the other. The latter came wheeling at me with a hiss.

I turned the blade aside with a grunt and swung, but he caught my strike on the shield. I felt the impact like a shock in my wrists and staggered, foolishly overcommitted. He stabbed in return, catching my just shy of the ribs. I winced and ignored the bright splash of my own blood.

“This one’s alive!” the fighter barked with grim laughter. Where the first gaoler had been fat, this man was anything but. He was gaunt, with sunken eyes half-hidden behind long greasy locks that flew about his face with each wild swing. Behind him, another man came bearing two long knives.

Two clashes of steel rang out in the dungeon, each as sharp and deadly as a bolt of lightning. Orange sparks spit the distance between us as I caught his strike and returned, using Bloodfang’s size to drive the knave back. The knifeman tried to get around him, but they were on each other then.

Strike the chain! Bloodfang cried into my mind.

“The sword will break,” I snarled back, parrying an overhand strike. My arms were beginning to burn, and my shoulders were protesting. Dare I use more of the radiance in my blood to slay the gaolers? I could feel blood leaking from the slice across my ribs.

Ur-iron is made to cage immortals. It will not break. How much your kind has forgotten!

That was all I needed to hear. I ignored the bitter admonition and rolled under a wild swing. The long-haired fighter staggered past me with a cheated snarl. The knifeman lunged at me, finally free, but I kicked his legs out from under him. He squawked and toppled, and his knives went bouncing toward the captives. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of them slide to a stop before the old man with the wide frayed beard.

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Bloodflang flashed out from my shoulder, and I poured my momentum into the strike. Bright sparks, livid and hot, flashed up on either side where the ur-iron struck the black chain, freeing six of the captives in a stroke. There was a thunderous crack that rang hard off the naked stone walls, and chunks of chain went rattling off into the dark.

The two gaolers, the swordman and knives, stood in shock for a moment. They had come nearly all the way across the dungeon. I stood no more than three paces from the door, directly over Param. Around me, the slaves were rising. The dim light in their eyes was cold, murderous.

“Run!” cried the further of the two. Without his knives, he had no courage at all. Dirty feet stuck out to trip him, for even those who were still chained to the wall had found some bravery, and he staggering to the groud. The slaves were on him in a moment. Two knives rose and fell, returning every bloody cruelty exacted on them tenfold. The fool screamed, a shrill, animal sound that made me want to clasp my ears.

The other gaoler saw what had become of his fellow. He shot a look at me, and then at the crowd, and threw his sword down as if it were a rearing serpent. He thrust his gloved hands into the air and backed up a step. Backed into the gaunt, bearded man, whose stolen knife rose to lay like a black promise across the gaoler’s throat.

“P-p-please,” the long-haired gaoler trembled. I watched, still breathing heavily. “Mercy.”

“Hell knows not that word,” the old man said. I saw his elbow tense.

“Wait!” I snapped. Furious eyes glared at me over the gaoler’s shoulder. Eyes of the hand of justice, stayed by an unwelcome interruption. And he was right, I thought. Right to cut from the torturer what he had cut from them in turn. But not yet. Not so uselessly.

“Give me a reason to let his heart beat, Cinderborn.”

“Cinderborn?” cried the gaoler. Whatever else he might have said, the blade of the knife choked off. White eyes rolled in terror.

I shouldered the greatsword. “They were keeping you all alive?” Anger, fear, and resentment were all that answered that question. Good enough, I supposed. “Or something like alive. But why? So many?”

“There were forty of us,” the bearded man said. The knife was trembling in his hand, and a bead of radiant blood slid down the vulnerable flesh where it had bit deep. “But they took us, one by one. The rest they bled. Tortured. Sucked dry, like leeches!”

“On orders!” cried the gaoler. “We didn’t have a choice!”

“Whose orders?” I demanded.

“The red priest! They were sent to feed the Wolf!” I sighed. Not far from what I expected. “Please. I’ll tell you everything.”

“You fear death, butcher? You who shared it out so carelessly?” the bearded man snarled. The gaoler swallowed, and so close was the knife to his throat that themovement opened another dim gash, spilling beads of blood. “Do you not relish a taste of Hell? I will feed you to the crows! Down you will go, fading a little further. A little less of what stale memory you are.”

“No!” shrieked the gaoler. “The Wolf promised me life!”

The bearded man teetered on the edge of murder. I could see it in him, like a man wrestling a raging bear. Hardly holding it back. But I had the air of command. Whatever Cinderborn meant to these people, the word had power. I had power.

“Release him,” I said. “I will question him.” I took a gamble. “I am hunting this Wolf.”

The naked wretches gasped, but the bearded man glared at me. Probing me. Searching for any sign of lies or weakness. I held my breath, and let my eyes harden, for I realized I meant every word of it. The Wolf—Harald—had betrayed Param. And though I knew not their relationship, I knew one thing: he would pay for that.

With a shove and a kick to the back of the gaoler’s knees, the bearded man obeyed. The captive fell heavily before me, but wasted no time. He came crawling forward, spraying false love from his lips, making foolish, vapid promises. Swearing fealty.

I laid Bloodfang along the side of his neck, staying all that. “Tell me the truth,” I said, grasping an echo from beyond the veil of memory. “And perhaps you will keep your head.”