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Scarlet Swords, and they’d have no clue as to his path. The henchmen were certain to find the tavern’s entrance to the catacombs, and he needed to reach his quarters before General Fane.
    The passage straightened and ran on for a distance. Lannick dimmed his lantern, growing worried of being found.
    Dread settled upon him in the dark. This was no ballroom fop or petty noble he’d wronged, but the kingdom’s most ambitious and dangerous man. Lannick had gotten crossways with him once before, and the price Fane had exacted had been nearly too much to bear. The fleeting joys of the previous evening disappeared entirely. It seemed that after all he’d been forced to suffer over these years, he’d die at the hands of his tormentor, General Fane.
    I am a dead man .
    After a time the cramped corridor began sloping upward. Lannick was certain the air was freshening and there was a faint murmur of what sounded like voices, likely the Scarlet Swords behind him. He shuttered his lamp closed and tried to quiet his breathing to better focus on the sound.
    There were voices. But these weren’t gruff exchanges of soldiers. Rather, it sounded like the hum of many conversations occurring at once. He tiptoed forward a few more paces, his head fixed at a tilt in hopes of hearing better. He guessed he was beneath some kind of meeting place, a market or square. What was more, there was the thinnest ribbon of light penetrating the gloom ahead. Lannick moved on, caring little for the resonating scrapes of his leather boots upon the limestone floor.
    The rough-hewn ceiling gave way to blocks of carved stone, and between two blocks was a tiny hole. Lannick pressed his eye as close to the hole as his nose would allow, but he could make out nothing but the gleam of light. But light it was, and he was certain there were people milling about the space above.
    “Help!” he hissed, hoping someone above would hear him. “Help me!”
    He waited there a moment, awaiting some sort of reply. But there was no response, and seemingly very little chance he could be heard. He cursed and pulled away from the light, and looked again into the gloom of the passageway.
    Just then an angry shout resounded from the darkness behind him. “Stop, you bastard!” came a gruff voice.
    Damn my wine-muddled head! Lannick charged forward as quickly as the strangled passage would allow. He could no longer afford caution, so he opened wide the shutters of his lamp. He ran, and the path ahead continued its upward slope. There had to be an exit somewhere.
    Another shout boomed from the darkness. Lannick swung his lamp around and saw a glint of steel not more than thirty feet behind him. He nearly stumbled as he turned about, trying to move faster than his legs would carry him. He ran with a frightened pace, a hare from the hound.
    He did not see the rubble strewn across the floor where a wall had crumbled and he lost his footing. He spilled across the stone, barely managing to keep hold of his lamp. He twisted about but fell back again, his boots sliding on the rubble.
    “Stay down, bastard!” The voice was close, almost upon him.
    At last Lannick scrambled to his feet and grabbed from a pocket the wine he’d stolen from Brugan’s cellar. The Scarlet Swordsman was no more than ten feet away, blade brandished and eyes agleam with fury. But he was alone.
    Lannick directed the lamp’s glare at the soldier, hoping the bright light in the utter dark would disorient him. With his other hand he threw the bottle. It struck the Swordsman square in the face, not hard enough to break the bottle but enough to make the man misstep and lose his footing on the same rubble which had toppled Lannick. He skidded to a stop at Lannick’s feet, and Lannick dashed his lamp across the Swordsman’s skull. Flames engulfed his head and shot across his red cloak. His screams told of horrific pain.
    Lannick looked frantically about for the man’s sword, and finally spotted its point