The wind tried to wrest Sam’s cloak from her shoulders as she stole her first glimpse of the infamous Diamond Coast. In the great tomes of history shelved in the Duke of Haywood’s library, Sam had read that this land was once dominated by a massive volcano in the shape of an inverted soup bowl. No one seemed to know whether the rumbling of the earth caused the volcano to blow its top or the heat of its magma chambers prompted the earthquake. Regardless, the earth moved and the volcano erupted with such force that the entire mountain upturned and crumbled, burying itself in layers of ash and molten rock.

Over the years, the lava hardened and the wind swept the ash away, leaving behind smooth and square-topped hills the color of onyx. Those brave souls who dared to make the journey west discovered that the exposed bowels of the volcano contained a treasure worth risking their lives: The deposits of blue-black rock that rose in stacks from the basaltic ground and surrounding sea glittered with diamond. A man could spend a day harvesting the crystal and make a king’s ransom—provided he could leave the Coast with both his bounty and life intact.

Looking out at the crystallized rock and still aquamarine waters, Sam could well believe that a man would risk coming here for a chance at a lifetime’s fortune. She could see why the Coast was uninhabitable—there were no trees for wood or mud to use as mortar—but she saw no evidence of the demon infestation that made it so dangerous.

“They’re here,” Tristan assured her. “They’ll make themselves known soon enough.”

If Sam didn’t believe Tristan, Braeden confirmed it. His nostrils flared and his pupils dilated and twisted. “So many,” he said, rubbing absently at his shoulder. He closed his eyes and shuddered, and when he opened them again the whites were faintly red.

“Why haven’t they attacked yet?” Sam asked.

Tristan said, “There are others afoot. Other people. Perhaps the demons are distracted.”

“People?” Sam shielded her eyes with her hand and peered into the distance. “I don’t see anybody."

“There, ahead,” said Tristan, pointing. “Do you see that heap of rocks by the beach?” Sam followed his finger to a large pile of rusted-over granite, forming a cobbled pyramid. “That’s a shelter, if a crude one. It bears the High Commander’s mark.”

Sam gulped. “Is the High Commander here?”

“Not yet,” said Tristan. “We made good time after Sander left. We’re at least a few days ahead of him.”

“So who is there now?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said Tristan, “but we’ll find out.”

The loose, slippery rock at the beach was treacherous to the horses, so Sam, Braeden and Tristan abandoned their mounts and scrambled towards the shelter on foot. A gap in the rock pyramid made for a doorway just wide enough to fit one person. Tristan went first to make sure it was safe. “You can come in!” he called out. “No one is here.”

“After you,” said Braeden. Sam squeezed her way through the narrow entry, and Braeden followed her in.

The inside was dark but airy. Light crept in through the spaces between the rocks, creating a speckled mosaic on the ground. A copper pot was strung over a small fire pit and rumpled blankets lined the perimeters of the shelter.

Tristan ran his thumb along the bottom of the fire pit. The pad of his thumb was dusted with black coal. “Someone’s been here recently.”

“Aye, we have.”

Sam jumped at the new voice. No, not new—she recognized that voice.

“Sagar.”

The Paladin squeezed his broad shoulders through the tight entrance and stepped fully into the small room. The bonhomie he had displayed while chasing paramours in Catania was markedly absent and there was a seriousness about him that to Sam seemed out of character. “Lyons,” Sagar said coldly. Acknowledging them separately, he said, “Braeden, Sam. I see there are only three of you.”

“Just us three,” Tristan confirmed, his mouth tight.

“And where is Sander Branimir?”

Tristan shrugged. “In Luca, perhaps? We have not been in recent contact.”

“Did you even make an effort?” Sagar asked.

“To recapture him? Sagar, the man saved my life. If you would listen--”

“I have my orders,” Sagar said. “And unlike you, I will follow them, however distasteful I find them.”

“Orders? What orders?”

Sagar sighed and put his fist to the hollow between his brows. “The High Commander gave you one week to retrieve Sander. Tristan, it’s been ten days and you show up here without him. You know what my orders are.”

Tristan’s laughter held an edge of bitterness. “What, the High Commander couldn’t be bothered to do it himself? You’re to be my executioner?” He shook his head disbelievingly. “I won’t give up without a fight, and you haven’t a prayer of defeating me.’

Sagar blushed a dull red. “I’m well aware who the superior swordsman is, Lyons. But I didn’t come to the Diamond Coast alone.” He turned to Sam and Braeden. “If you two leave now, the High Commander will forgive you everything.” When they didn’t move, he added, more sharply, “Don’t throw your futures away for the sake of friendship.”

“Is that what you did, Paladin?” asked Sam, taking a step forward. “Throw however many years of friendship away because of one man’s order? And in the time you’ve known Tristan, has he ever been disloyal or anything less than a Paladin should be? Has he?”

Sagar’s face grew darker. “D’you think I want to do this? I was perfectly happy in Catania, minding my own business, responding to the occasional demon attack. Then not three weeks ago, the High Commander sends me a missive ordering me to the Diamond Coast. No explanation, but it’s the High Commander, so I go. Then, I get here—” he gesticulated wildly—“and I’m told that Lyons is colluding with the enemy, and I’m to see him punished for it. Have you seen Tristan with a sword? I’ve no wish to die.”

“Sagar?” a deep man’s voice called out. “Sagar? You in there?”

“Aye, I’ve got Lyons here, too!” he returned. Sam couldn’t hear the man’s muffled response. “This is your last chance,” Sagar said to Sam and Braeden. “No? Well, then, the grace period is over. I hope your friendship warms your graves.” The Paladin unsheathed his sword and backed slowly out of the shelter.

A tense silence filled the small room. Tristan’s face was stone. “You should go,” he said. “They’ll still forgive you if you go now.”

“I already told you, we’re not going anywhere,” said Sam.

“You might die out there,” said Tristan. “Fighting a man—fighting a Paladin—is nothing like fighting a demon.”

Sam withdrew her sword from its scabbard. She grinned wickedly. “Don’t worry, Lyons, I learned from the best.”

A long knife slipped into Braeden’s right hand and he undid the ties of his robe with the other, letting the empty sleeves flutter to his waist. He slid the dagger into his heart, all the way to the hilt, and pulled it out with a grimace. His eyes burned vermillion.

“Can’t say I didn’t try,” said Tristan. He lifted his own sword from his hip, a long, two-handed claymore. “Let me go first. Hold your weapons out in front of you as you leave.”

They exited the shelter single file, led by Tristan. Four men waited for them outside—the High Commander had sent a quadron. In addition to Sagar, Sam recognized two of the men: Paladin Parsall and Paladin Boyle from Westergo. While Sagar may have been drafted by the High Commander, Sam suspected Parsall and Boyle had volunteered. The fourth man Sam had never seen before. He was huge, inhumanly so, not just tall but solid with muscle. His head was shaved and a gold hoop earring dangled from his left ear.

“Oh, good,” said Tristan. “There are only four of you. For a moment, I was worried.”

“There are four of us and three of you,” Parsall sneered. “You’re outnumbered. I did warn you you’d get your comeuppance one day. And lucky me, I get to hand it to you.”

“I’d wager you’ve spent more time slicing the hairs on your chin than slicing with your sword,” Tristan taunted. Parsall did have a well-manicured beard. “If you ask nicely, we’ll let you go unharmed.”

Parsall snorted. “You have an inflated sense of ego, Lyons. Allow me to cut it down to size.” He charged, aiming his blade at Tristan’s head.

Sam took that as her cue. “The giant’s mine,” she snarled, and ran at him with her sword.

The giant met her sword with a heavy battle axe, and her teeth chattered as the vibration ran up her arm. The giant laughed. “I am a god, little boy. You will die today.”

Oh, please. Sam flicked her sword against his arm. Red spilled from a shallow cut. “Some god,” she said. “You bleed like a man.”

The giant bared his teeth and swung his axe. She danced out of range, just barely. He was unnaturally quick for a man of his size, and his axe whooshed through the air before she recovered from his first swing. She threw up her sword to block him from plowing his axe into her neck. The impact of his weapon against hers knocked the blade from her hands.

Shite. She reached for her sword, but the giant stepped on the flat of the blade, pinning it to the ground. She tugged at the handle, but he was too heavy. He laughed again. “Over so soon. How disappointing.”

Sam grabbed a knife from her belt and jabbed it into his foot. He howled, and the weight on the blade was gone. She snatched up her sword and thrust, catching him under his armpit. It wasn’t a killing blow, but it would hurt.

Enraged, the giant roared and drove his fist into her belly. Sam doubled over in pain, holding onto her sword for balance. He elbowed her in the face, hard. A searing pain spread across her cheek and dark spots bloomed across her vision. Ouch.

His axe cleaved through the air. She ducked, his blade slicing through her top-knot. Loose hair tumbled around her shoulders and fell into her eyes. She swiped it behind her ears and attacked with her sword. She had to be on the offensive; the giant was too strong for her to parry his ripostes. Duck, dodge, and attack—she repeated the pattern for what seemed like ages.

Sweat dripped from every pore, and her tunic clung to her like a second skin. Dimly, Sam wondered how Braeden and Tristan were faring with their opponents. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Braeden spar with Paladin Boyle. The redheaded man fought with a sword and shield, his shield as much a weapon as his blade. Tristan fended off Paladin Parsall and Sagar.

The giant struck out at her with the knob of his axe, connecting with her knuckles. Bone crunched, and her blade dropped to her feet. He kicked it out of the way, sending it skittering across the ground. “No weapon, little boy,” he growled. “You’re mine now.”

Sam threw her knife into his throat. “You forgot my other weapon,” she said, watching the blood gurgle from his mouth. He sank to his knees, clutching at his neck. He shot her a final, hateful glare, and then his eyes glazed over with death.

Sam picked up her discarded sword and poked the giant with it to make sure he was dead. He fell to his side, unmoving, his blood dripping like raindrops onto the cold rock. She had killed him.

Sam went down on all fours and vomited until her stomach emptied. Tristan had been right—fighting a man was nothing like fighting a demon. And killing a man…She felt no glory, only deep self-disgust. When she had traded in her silk gowns for a sword, this was not what she imagined.

Paladin Parsall was dead, and Paladin Boyle lay nursing a fatal wound. Braeden had split him open from chest to naval, and Boyle held his intestines in his hands. Sagar was at the end of Tristan’s sword, begging for his life.

“Please, Tristan, have mercy,” he sobbed. He was bleeding from several places, and as he shook his head back and forth, Sam could see he was missing an ear. Had anything remained in her stomach, she would have retched.

Tristan’s voice was ice. “Like you showed mercy on me, friend?”

Sagar’s sobs turned into hysterical wailing. “Please, Tristan, please. Oh gods, I don’t want to die.”

Sam staggered to her feet. “Let him go, Tristan.”

Tristan’s gaze didn’t leave Sagar. “Why should I? He would have killed us all if he were halfway decent with a sword.”

“Because then we’re the monsters that they are,” said Braeden softly. He crouched beside Paladin Boyle and stared into his pain-filled eyes. “May the gods have mercy on your soul,” Braeden said, and slit the Paladin’s throat.

“Fine,” Tristan growled. He dropped his blade from Sagar’s neck. “Hand over your weapon and I’ll let you go.”

Sagar began blubbering. “But Tristan, what about the demons? How am I to defend myself?”

“Braeden, come here,” Tristan ordered. Braeden obeyed, walking to Tristan’s side. “Do you have an extra knife?” Braeden produced a short dagger from his robes.

“Here,” Tristan said, thrusting the knife at Sagar. “That’s all the mercy you’ll get from me. Don’t let me see you again. Ever.”

Sagar opened his mouth as though he were going to say something, and then thought better of it. He nodded instead, tucked the knife into his trousers, and limped off down the rocky beach.

“Do you think he’ll survive?” Sam asked once Sagar was a fair distance away.

Braeden sniffed the air. “The smell of blood is strong,” he said, “and Sagar is injured. If he can make it to his horse, and his horse is fast, maybe.” He shivered, and the skin on his bare arms rippled. “Then again, maybe not.”

A/N: That's right, two posts in two days! I'm on a roll. And an action scene! Hoorah! Let me know whatcha think, yada yada yada, please leave comments because they make me happy, and vote!

Another super adorbs picture from UnmaskedHarlequin. Braeden. Swoon.