Jars grunted but grabbed Somerset’s ankle in one hand and twisted viciously. Somerset had to pick between a fall and a broken ankle. He went with fall and hit the ground with a crack.
“What have you done?” Jars demanded. He dragged himself forward and grabbed Somerset by the hair so he could smash his face into the ground. “Exile wasn’t enough. You had to break your oaths, too?”
Blood tasted cold and salty in the back of Somerset’s face. He threw his elbow back. The idea had been to catch Jars in the temple with it; instead, he got him in the throat. It worked well enough.
“I’m not the oath-breaker here,” he snarled as he threw his choking brother off,
Stúfur grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to his feet.
“I checked my math,” Stúfur yelled in Somerset’s ear. Someone had taken a cudgel to his face, the flesh pulped and bruised from eye socket to jaw. “Nine to three. Still bad odds.”
Somerset reached under his jacket and pulled his knife from the sheath strapped along his ribs.
“We don’t have to win,” he said. “Just keep between them and Dylan.”
Stúfur grinned. The pulped side of his face didn’t move quite right. “I’m not even getting laid,” he groused. “And I’m going to die for the boy.”
“He’s Santa,” Somerset said. “That’s our oath.”
Ket buried his hook in Sky’s throat, its point threaded in under one ear and out the other. He yanked it out in a spray of blood and spit. Sky made a furious, garbled noise as he clutched his throat with one hand and swung a punch with the other. It caught Ket in the stomach, and he staggered back a step as he retched.
“A bit of help,” he said over his shoulder as he spat bile onto the dance floor. “If you’ve time.”
Somerset grinned. It had been far too long since all of them had really had a chance to get together like this. He flicked the knife in his hand and waded into the fight.
He kicked Gatt’s feet out from under him, the hunter’s curses vicious as he hit the ground, and punched a cocky Sainted in the throat when the man swung a bottle at his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stúfur dull his knife against a troll’s hide. His brother grimaced and tossed the knife aside before kicking the troll between the legs. Metal toe caps clanked against stony balls. Metal won, and the troll went down with a basso groan.
“You ever actually shot anyone with that fucking gun?” Somerset asked.
It was a jibe. From Stúfur’s slightly embarrassed look, it was actually true.
The lights went out. Somerset stumbled in surprise, and the axe swung at his head caught him in the ribs instead. It cracked bone and then slid down into meat. Pain lanced through Somerset, sharp enough to take his breath. Or the axe might have clipped his lung. It was hard to say. There was no time to worry about it.
Somerset clenched his teeth against the blood that burbled up his throat, grabbed the handle of the axe, and shoved it back into the wielder’s gut. Nik’s breath belched out of him on a yelp.
“Dark doesn’t help when I know where you are,” Somerset said. He yanked his brother closer and brought his head forward in a short, vicious snap. Bone cracked against bone, and lights sparkled against the back of Somerset’s eyes even in the unnatural darkness. Then Nik hit the ground, and the lights came back on.
Somerset shook his head, spat blood, and looked around.
The Yule Guard had joined the fight. Nine to three had been bad. Twenty to three, even if they weren’t all Lads, was not going to last long.
Somerset dodged a spear that tried to gut him. He grabbed it and used it as a lever to swing the guard on the other end around, fouling the rest of his troop until the man had the wit to let go.
Ket was backed into a wall, blood and guts strung from his hook like a garland.
Stúfur was down, pinned under five guards. He tore chunks out of them with his teeth, but for every one that stumbled back, another took his place.
“Enough!” Jars yelled. He was on his feet again, and he clapped his hands together. The concussion knocked everyone off their feet. Somerset skidded backward across the floor until he hit a pile of tables. Ice crawled up out of the floor and manacled him down, knotting around his ankles and wrists.
“You—” Jars spat out as he stalked forward. “Always thought too much of yourself.”
“No,” Somerset said through a bloody grin. “I just thought less of you.”
Jars glared at him, then snapped his fingers at a guard. “Kick him.”
The guard gawped for a second, glanced at Jars’ legs, and then—half-heartedly—booted Somerset in the ribs. Somerset jolted against his manacles and groaned.
Most of his attention was focused past Jars, though. Dylan was on the Sleigh. They were so close. He just had to—
