Drawn Blades by Kelly McCullough Page A

Triss’s aid. My familiar pulled magic from my soul and used it to give himself greater physical presence as he wrapped my knee in the stuff of his own substance, briefly armoring me.
    I pivoted in the water and stabbed downward along the line of my leg, but the Durkoth had already loosed his grip. I looked to see where he had gone, but couldn’t find him through the cloud of blood coming from my nose. I tried to kick myself back to the surface, but full boots and the weight of my gear only dragged me deeper.
    Triss, where is he!?
    Below you, I—
    The mace struck again, skidding across my thigh. Again, the water and Triss saved me from serious injury. If the Durkoth had had a blade of some sort or kept his spear I’d have been finished.
    Triss, give me some fins!
    I won’t be able to armor you,
he sent, but I could feel that he had complied as my madly kicking legs suddenly met sharp resistance and I shot upward through the water.
    I felt a tearing pain as the mace smashed into my left calf, and roughly dragged down across my heel, but it didn’t break the bone, and a moment later I was in the shallows again. This time I made it out of the water. I immediately dragged myself upright despite the injuries to my leg, staggering back from the pool’s edge as I did so.
    The water of the pool, so clear mere minutes before, was a muddy soup now, full of blood and silt kicked up from the bottom. I couldn’t see what had become of my erstwhile attackers and I kept the points of my swords moving back and forth to cover the whole of the pool. Even so, I barely made my parry when the male Durkoth erupted out of the water like some lesser cousin of the dragons.
    We went back and forth for a few passes after that, but I had both the better weapon and greater speed. With the element of surprise gone, the conclusion was all but inevitable, and he soon lost his head. I kicked it into the nearer pool and was about to do the same with his body when I noticed something odd on the breast of his shirt—a flat circle about the size of a silver riel. It looked to be made of a different stone from the rough granite of his shirt.
    I waited another minute to make sure his companion wasn’t going to resurface. She didn’t, and I had to conclude that either the leg wound or the water had done for her—wrapping yourself in stone is not the best strategy for a swimmer.
    Then I knelt and examined the circle. It was a delicate red marble and half-covered by a thick fold of his shirt. There was no way I was going to be able to get it off him without shattering it utterly. The little badge bore a simple intaglio design—a rough lump of something with a wisp of smoke rising off of it.
    Once I’d fixed the image in my mind I kicked the body into the water and limped my way around to Krithak’s throne. I expected to find her dead, but the blood staining the corner of her mouth continued to bubble faintly and I could hear labored breathing. When I got closer, she turned a hand on her throne, beckoning me close with one crooked finger.
    “. . . come,” she husked, her voice softer than a whisper. “Listen. I have things still to tell.”
    Looking at the angle of the spear in her chest, I didn’t think she could possibly have much time left. But I knew removing it would only cut what little she had even shorter. Knowing I could do nothing more for her than obey her final request, I knelt and put my ear close to her lips.
    “Fire Underground cultists . . . can tell by the smoke-darkened iron they carry . . . true Durkoth wield stone.”
    “He wore a badge, a coal maybe, with smoke rising off of it. . . .”
    “His emblem . . . yes.” She paused for several heartbeats. “Buried gods all have . . . followings among the First. To our . . . shame. They want to . . . refight the godwar. You must be wary. . . .”
    Again she came to a halt. This time the silence lasted so long I thought she must have passed the final veil.