I could have laughed. I wanted to. Instead, I braced her with my hip and scanned the edges for any advantage. There was none. Not with her hurt.
The first wave of soldiers started forward, the wall of shields flexing like a muscle. They meant to box us in, drive us to our knees, and finish it with the least possible risk to their own pride. They had no idea.
I bent down, low enough to whisper in Scarlette’s ear. “On my mark, you run for the center,” I said. “No matter what.”
She looked at me, eyes rimmed in red, jaw set. “Don’t be a martyr, Moab.”
I grinned, felt the canines shift in my mouth. “I just like to see them work for it.”
We moved together, slow, backing toward the center of the oaks, the ring of swords closing tighter. Above us, birds cut the sky in black slashes. The light on the armor hurt to look at, a reminder of all the things in this world I couldn’t break.
Aldric spurred his horse forward, the animal’s breath curling in the cold. “Last warning!” he roared. “I’ll see your head on a pike if you resist.”
Brother Tomas echoed, “Repent, demon! Confess your sin!”
“He wants me to repent,” I said to Scarlette, “but I think we’ll make our own luck.”
She laughed, then coughed, blood spotting her lip. “Always, Wolf.”
The men charged, swords raised.
We held our ground, backs to the biggest oak, waiting for the storm.
***
The first shot was a thunderclap. For a split second, the world froze, men with swords mid-swing, boots planted in churned earth, even the crows overhead arrested in mid-flight, wings outstretched like pages waiting to be read.
Then two of Aldric’s men went down, hard and ugly, the first with half a face left and the second with a smoking hole where the breastplate buckled. Blood sprayed a wide arc, painting the snow with more precision than any brush could manage.
The clearing exploded into noise. Horses bucked, one kicking a squire clear off his feet. The wall of shields shattered as men scrambled for cover they’d never needed before. Sir Aldric’s head snapped up, eyes gone wide, trying to make sense of the new kind of death.
Vin and Shivs came out of the trees at a jog, weapons up. Vin’s face was all business—no smile, just the flat mask of a man doing a job he’d trained for. He held the pistol two-handed, moving fast but not in a hurry, squeezing off shots that sounded more like punctuation than panic. Every round found its mark. Shivs, behind him, had something bigger, a stubby black machine that hosed the air with more noise than sense, but each burst sent men flying or made them duck like animals on the first day of the hunt.
I’d seen a lot of things, but nothing like this, two worlds colliding, one with powder and lead, the other with faith and steel. The medieval side did what it always does: they regrouped. Men with swords rushed forward, howling, convinced that bravery could outshout fear.
Vin took three more down before they hit the oaks. Shivs went wide, covering the flank. The smell of burnt gunpowder rolled over us, sharp and oily, drowning out even the blood. Scarlette looked at me, then at the men falling in heaps, and for a second her face was a mixture of horror and something else, maybe relief, maybe awe.
Vin shouted, “Get to the circle!” his voice was as calm as if he were calling a play at a peewee game. I pulled Scarlette with me, half-dragging her toward the ring of trees. Behind us, the men closed in, desperate now, knowing the old rules were gone but refusing to quit the field.
They got close, too close. One of them, a big bastard with a beard like a broom, swung his sword at my back. I twisted, grabbed a dead man’s sword, and caught him under the arm. The blade slipped in easily, blood gushing like he was nothing but a wineskin with opinions. He dropped, clawing at the ground.
The next one didn’t hesitate. He slammed into me, sending both of us into the mud. We rolled, my sword against his forearm, his blade scraping my ribs. I felt the steel punch through skin, but it was a shallow cut. He didn’t get a second chance. I shoved my thumb into his eye, popped it like a grape, and then sliced his throat while he was still screaming.
Scarlette screamed behind me, not in pain, but in rage. I spun to see her on her knees, grappling with a soldier twice her weight. He had her by the throat, squeezing, but she’d gotten her hand on his dagger and rammed it straight into his thigh. The man yowled, let go, and she snatched his sword as he staggered back, eyes wide with shock.
She held the sword like she’d been born with it, both hands tight, knuckles white. The next man who came at her got the point through the neck, the blade sliding in clean. Scarlette’sface was a mask of focus, no fear, no hesitation. She yanked the sword free and turned, looking for the next threat.
Shivs swung around from the right, emptying a magazine into a tight knot of men near the horses. The animals reared and whinnied, trampling anyone unlucky enough to be in the way. Vin, reloading, moved toward us, keeping his body between Scarlette and the incoming attackers.
“Good to see you, Sarge,” he called out, voice barely winded.
“Thought you might enjoy the party,” I said.
Vin grinned, took a headshot at a man trying to flank him, then ducked behind a fallen trunk. “How’s the girl?”
“She bites,” I said, and Scarlette snorted.
We pushed through, a slow retreat toward the center. The soldiers adapted; some circled, some took cover, and a few hung back to see if their lords would order a retreat. But Aldric was not the sort to back down. He rode his horse straight through the chaos, sword up, his voice carrying over the gunfire.
