Oddly flattered, Brandt nodded, demonstrating the swift twist and angle required. Rikard mastered it in only a few tries.
“Good,” Brandt grunted, motioning for him to take up a sparring position. Their wings churned the empty air in the Tower’s core as they circled each other, and Brandt’s calledinstructions rang off the stones. “Fighting a mounted goblin is different than this. They have no tails to watch out for, but their war bats have larger wingspans, and their weapons are tael-forged. Their blades can bite through steel armor like it’s made of tallow candles and never lose their edge. And their throwing knives fly true every time. You will have one chance to strike. Perhaps one to dodge or defend. That’s all.”
“I understand,” Rikard said, face grim. But he couldn’t understand any more than Brandt could understand the Nadir’s concern for who would succeed him. No one could understand a goblin until they stared one in the face.
Rikard dove for him. It was skillful and sudden and utterly expected. Brandt tucked a wing at the last second, and Rikard tumbled past him, grunting as he thudded into a crossbeam. He perched there momentarily, massaging his shoulder and glaring at Brandt, who had to laugh.
“You must defend yourself even when you attack. It accomplishes nothing to take down a war bat if you break your wing.”
In answer, Rikard launched up at him with the full force of his powerful haunches, teeth bared and claws out. Brandt tipped backward, aiming a kick at him, but Rikard anticipated the defensive move, raking his claws down Brandt’s calf.
His hide tore to a searing depth. He had to slam up a mind wall against the pain to stay in the air. Once the pain was partitioned, the blood still dripped down his foot and pat-pat-patted onto the floor far below, but the hurt was gone, and his thoughts were clear.
Some called it battle bliss, the gargoyle ability to lock up pain inside the mind. Some sought it out. But Brandt knew better than anyone that the feeling was only temporary. There was payment due on the other side.
“You have nothing to prove,” he snapped at Rikard, who just snarled at him and attacked his left side, drawing blood again. What was hedoing? Brandt flew up a few tiers, out of reach, to perch and catch his breath.
“Coward.”
He scoffed. “Say that to me again when you’ve faced down the goblin hordes a few dozen times.”
“If you’re such a hero, then faceme,” Rikard taunted from below, voice reedy with anger.
Fine. The idiot was asking for it. Brandt dove straight down with full velocity. Rikard tried to dodge his attack but was too slow. They both hit a crossbeam before tumbling into the observation gallery that ringed the third tier.
He pinned one of Rikard’s wings to the floor with his foot until the arrogant towerborn stopped struggling. “If you want to fight under my command, you’ll value every member of your watch like a brother, including your commander. We spar to help each other learn and grow, not to cause pain and damage. I am not your enemy. Wesharean enemy, and you’ll do good to remember it.”
“Understood. Now let me up,” came Rikard’s muffled snarl.
Brandt stepped back, leaving his footprint in blood, and extended a hand to help Rikard to his feet.
That’s when the scent of war bat hit his nostrils. He stiffened, taking another breath to be sure.
“They’re here,” he hissed disbelievingly.
There weregoblinsin Solvantis.
Chapter 8
Idabel
The war-bat fur smelled worse than carrion. After handling the coarse pelt in Betje’s back room, the scent seemed to burrow deeper into her nostrils with every breath. The bitter, musky stench clung to anything it touched.
“You think this will work?” she’d asked Betje doubtfully, as the apothecary helped her rub the fur on her sleeves and skirt.
Betje shrugged as she worked in the near-dark, her fae-marked features pinched with distaste at the smell. “War bats are goblins’ mounts. Any gargoyle who catches wind of it willassume they’re under attack. Their instincts will take over. What happens then is anyone’s guess. You ought to take your healing kit with you to treat your injuries afterward, just in case.”
Now, sneaking through the Tower’s corridors with her ring of keys jangling softly at her hip and her pouch of herbs and supplies on her belt, Idabel wondered if she’d lost her mind entirely. The war-bat scent was so overwhelming that she could barely think past it.
She chose the training tier deliberately. Though it was more likely to be busy, it was close to the bottom of the Tower so she could reach it quickly. Plus, Betje’s suggestion that gargoyles preparing for deployment would be especially volatile, their blood already running hot with thoughts of battle, seemed plausible. If any of them would bite first and ask questions later, it would be one of them.
The sound of clashing stone and grunted curses echoed from the open archway ahead. Her pulse quickened as she approached, clutching her cleaning supplies like a shield. She only needed to be smelled, not seen, so she paused to let the horrible scent drift into the training space and trigger someone’s instincts.
She peered around the corner. Two gargoyles struggled on the floor of the viewing gallery, one standing on the wing of the other to keep him from rising again. She recognized the victor with a swift intake of breath. It was Brandt, his scarred hide gleaming with sweat and blood.
Her stomach clenched with unexpected worry at the dark stains spreading down his leg and ribs. Why were they fighting so viciously?
She couldn’t stay to watch, though, or she risked drawing Brandt’s notice. She intended to keep her promise to stay away from him. All the gargoyles in the Tower, and she found him first. It’d be funny if she were in any other circumstance.
