Just like that, courageous men charge toward us from the back rank of the Silverknights.
I slide to my left, no longer willing to simply spectate, and punch the pommel of my axe into a man’s mask, spurting blood and chipped teeth from the small slivers of his closed helmet as he stumbles back and drops.
Another Silver is right behind him, stabbing a spear at me from length. Using my momentum from the first man, my hands glide down the haft of my war-axe. My body goes with it, and I sidestep the spear and bring the curved blade down, snapping the fortified wood of the man’s spear in two.
Garroway leaps forward, kneeing the confused soldier holding two sticks of wood right in the balls where his armor doesn’t cover.
With a squeal, the soldier falls to his knees, losing all nerve for battle.
Garro streams toward me like a specter, jumping. I kneel, recognizing his trajectory, and allow him to plant his foot on my shoulder and leapoffmy body to stab his daggers at the next soldier in line, high near his ears.
The Silverknights become jarred, line breaking from our brutal defense. We’ve killed no one—Sephania’s orders—yet three knights are quickly writhing in the mud.
The Bronzes find the advantage and charge the Silverknights, sandwiching the Silvers and kicking up dust and spattering mud with their heavy boots.
The night turns into a dreary skirmish. There are screams everywhere. I catch Garroway through the dust, whipping his daggers around and earning a few nicks in tendons that leave Silverknights hobbling and screaming to get away from the masterful rogue.
I swing my axe in wide arcs to keep our adversaries at bay, while Garroway does the dirty work of disabling and incapacitating anyone who gets too close.
Seeing the Bronzes charge the Silverknights from the back, and a whistle ordering the Silvers to protect both lines, gives me an idea—an opening.
As my cub wheels around for the next soldier in line, I grab Garroway’s wiry arm and spin him about. “Follow,” I grunt, and push him along.
Through the dust we emerge on the side of the street, only having to defend ourselves against a few more mistimed strikes before we’re fleeing from the chaotic scene that’s broken out.
We pull our hoods low and dash into the mouth of an alley, emerging from another side. Garroway takes the lead—though I know Vanison’s locations better, the cub intrinsically knows the inner workings of the streets better after living here for so many years.
He bends us around corners, has us leaping over barrels and debris in the road, all while a few straggling Silverknights chase us.
Another contingent stands ready a few blocks away, and we curse as we pull up short. The Silverknights here are set in two deep lines, “protecting” the streets, likely to act as reinforcements for the hanging scene down the way.
I recognize the short man at front, a short beard new on his face. Though he hardly comes up to my chest, I know he’s not to be underestimated.
I grip my axe two-handed. Garroway crouches, bending his knees to get low to the ground. Behind us, footsteps fall away as four Silverknights reach us. In front, twenty more wait.
Rirth, the vertically challenged Silverknight chieftain in question, steps forward from his ranks. With one hand on the silver sword at his hip, he lifts his other palm to stop the four behind us from charging, likely knowing it will lead to their deaths.
“Halt. I know these two,” Rirth growls. His voice is raspy, likely from constant shouting at his soldiers.
The man has done quite well for himself building such a powerful military occupation in Nuhav. It reminds me of Overlord Barnabac Craxon with his hold over the military in Olhav. His hold overme.The constant threats and debasements Barnabac put me through for decades, until finally meeting his fitting end at the Five Ministries meeting.
Rirth and Barnabac are nothing alike. One is alive, one is deader than dead. One is a human, one was a vampire. Rirth is small, Barnabac was large. And, if I am to believe Sephania, Rirth is an honorable man, whereas Barnabac could be trusted about as much as I trust a wasp not to sting me.
“They’re bloody Buvers, sir,” one of the soldiers curses behind us. “They deserve a watery grave or a stake through the heart.”
“We will give it to them . . .” Rirth trails off, stepping forward and eyeing us warily. “. . . if they’re found in these streets again. Understood?”
I frown. My body loosens. He’s giving us an out, but the way he’s doing it angers me. I have to fight to keep my bloodrage atbay. “If I understand you correctly, Silverknight Rirth, you are threatening us.”
“I am. Tell Sephania to keep her bloodsuckers out of Nuhavian affairs. She gave up the right to protect the people when she became a vampire-lover.”
Next to me, Garroway mutters, “Better than calling her a bloodsucker-fucker, I suppose.”
I’m not feeling the same levity he is. I don’t appreciate being threatened. Part of me wants to see how deep I could gouge a split through his body height-wise—how deep the cut would go from his skull to his groin. Perhaps I could cut the tick-sized man fully in half with one swipe.
The thoughts behind my bloodrage, focusing on Sephania, tell me to stand down. The red curtain falls away and I clench my jaw as I stare at the nondescript soldier standing in front of us. A nondescript soldier who has gained the allegiance and loyalty of hundreds across the city, who simply want to take up the silver to take down the sex-traders and the vampires.
We will have it out with these Silverknight frauds. I have no doubt about it.My nostrils flare.But tonight is not that night. We have a mission.“Very well,” I tell Rirth. “I will relay your message to Sephania.”
