Within seconds, one of the spearmen is down on one knee, gasping and clutching at his side. One of the swordsmen falls immediately after, a wicked spurt of blood spilling down his leg. He limps toward Skar, puts too much pressure on the weakened limb, and collapses face-first due to the weight of his heavy armor.
Skar, by contrast, wears nothing but a cloak and tunic. He is made for speed. It isn’t fair when his wiry build is coupled with his superhuman strength and speed. He kicks one of the Bronzes in the chest and caves his armor in like it’s a brittle copper pot. The man goes flying, dropping his sword as he crashes into a building in a shower of debris and grime.
The last remaining lancer juts at Skar in a flurry of quick moves. My mate backpedals on the balls of his feet. His sword arcs and spins. He wheels around the bulky militiaman beforethe soldier can get his bearings. Skar slashes, over and over, but no blood shows.
My brow furrows. I’m holding Palacia tighter than I mean to, and she lets out a soft whimper in my arms.
Skar ceases his spinning and ends up in front of the Bronze. The man takes a step toward Skar—
And his entire breastplate falls off at both sides, all the straps joining his armor severed between the crevices. The man gasps. Without the bulky cuirass, only a thin hauberk shows on his corded body. He’s well-muscled but much thinner than I imagined when he had armor on.
Hesitating, the man looks down and mutters, “Shit,” under his closed helmet.
Skar advances, stabs the man in the shoulder in a lightning-fast strike, and sends him squealing to the ground.
I look up the street. The two archers are on their feet, looking confused. They share a look, notice Skar walking confidently and slowly toward them . . . and turn tail to run.
I rush to Skar to watch them flee around the side of the next street, disappearing.
Skar sheathes his sword. We look back at the four groaning bodies. He says, “There. No one dead. You happy, brat?”
He walks away, continuing ever-north. “Ecstatic, ass,” I mutter under my breath, but can’t help but smile.
Then I hear a voice that makes my blood run cold. It’s a loud, scolding timbre coming from the direction we’re going—the direction the Bronzes ran. “Where the fuck are you two going with your tails between your legs, eh? Have some fucking dignity!”
A new group rounds the corner. The rustling of armor and gear freezes us in the middle of the street. I don’t freeze because of the six newcomers. I freeze because of the man leading them, dressed in lighter, dark armor I’m more accustomed to.
Instantly recognizing his gait, stance, and stature, I let out a shallow breath. “Rirth.”
Skar says, “Suppose I should handle this one too, since you’re well-acquainted with—”
“No,” I hiss. I force Palacia into his arms. “Take her. Let me talk to him.”
Skartovius takes Pala, flares his nostrils in frustration. “Does that look like a man ready totalk, love?”
I’m already past him. He’s not wrong: Rirth looks ready for battle, like he’s headed to a shadowgala. His face is firm, he recognizes me immediately, and he calls off his comrades as I step away from Skar and he steps away from them. He has his customary longsword drawn. The silver dagger I gave him sits in his off-hand.
We meet in the middle of the road, separated by only twenty feet. I haven’t drawn my blades yet. He hasn’t offered the same courtesy of sheathing his. Rirth’s eyes are clearer than when I last saw him, no longer bleary from drink or misery.
I eye my old friend from head to toe. “Not looking like much of aSilverknightwith all those dark colors.”
“You made a mistake coming here, Sephania.”
“Did I? To my own city?”
“You abandoned this city when you abandoned your people.” Rirth’s grip tightens on his weapons.
My nostrils flare, anger roiling through me. “If I recall correctly, I abandonedno one.I was the one who brought you out of the depths of despair, remember?”
His glances around my body—the man is a head shorter than me so he can’t easily look over my shoulder—and squints menacingly at Skar. His hair is shorn, nearly bald, with a fresh plane of bristles atop his pate. Rirth is handsome as ever. Just as dangerous-looking, too.
“Yes, Seph, I remember. You told me to do something with my life. So here I am, doing it.” Rirth peels his lip back in a snarl. “I’m ending the scourge of slavers and flesh-traders in Nuhav.”
“A worthy endeavor.” My tense shoulders loosen. I try a new tact, realizing fighting anger with anger isn’t working. “I don’t mean to stop you, my friend. I simply mean to pass.”
“To go to yournewhome.” He nods his chin up to the mountains, to the shining city of Olhav.
It’s obvious how much it pains him to see me with Skartovius. I understand it. If I didn’t know my situation—didn’t know how much Skar, Vall, and Garro have done for me—I’d hate me too. “Nuhav will always be my home, Rirth. You may not understand it, but everything I’m doing isforNuhav.”
