show. Ringil kicked out viciously, tried for a knee. He missed, could not afford the instability or time it would take to try again, dropped hastily back,caught a blurred glimpse of the burned man rushing him from the side, and swung about to meet the assault.
Barely in time.
The Ravensfriend blocked like something alive, took the brunt. The sword chimed and quivered, his attacker’s steel glanced off it, turned the force of the rush a vital couple of inches. Ringil pivoted with it, flashed out a hand on instinct, grasped something, a buckle on a tunic, an edge of stiffened cloth, jerked the man forward off balance. The imperial plunged past him, stumbling. Ringil tripped him, put him down. No time to bring the Ravensfriend down for the kill—the others were on him—he settled for a glancing kick to the downed soldier’s head—
Sensed, somehow, the hurtling edge of steel at head height behind him—
Ungainly sideways leap—over the sprawled body, and just ahead of the scything imperial blade. He felt it touch his queue, flip the bound ponytail of hair, felt the cool wind of its passing. He landed awkwardly, breath caught up, only half convinced his head was still on his shoulders.
And whipped about at guard. Tight grin on his face with how close he’d come.
The remaining two imperials came on. The body of their fallen comrade slowed them down. But behind them, the legate had finally managed to draw a sword of his own, was brandishing it not entirely unhandily. And Poppy Snarl was on her knees in the dirt beside Irgesh, scrabbling for his weapon. Ringil felt the balance tilt, felt what he’d planned sliding out of reach, felt—
Straight-line crow-flicker black.
Like a mother hushing unruly boys, but impossibly swift. A rippled fleeting past him through the air, and the two soldiers slammed to a halt, spiked about with sudden, black-fletched arrow shafts. Throat and eye, chest and belly.
Eril’s men, taking no chances.
Yeah—took their fucking time about it, though
.
The imperials spasmed, gurgled, and went down, dead or near enough to make no difference. Puff and drift of dust up around theirbodies. The man at Ringil’s feet moaned and twitched, but showed no sign of getting up.
Ringil let his breath out. Surveyed his victory.
The legate, clutching his sword at an uncertain guard. Poppy Snarl, crouched beside her slaughtered march-master, blinking at what had just happened. And out among the sea of huddled slaves, Eril’s men moving forward. They wore the assumed garb of the march-masters they’d murdered in the night or the captured slaves they’d imitated coming into camp. They held an irregular assortment of weapons, stolen or already owned, among them at least half a dozen recurved bows drawn to a cautious half-taut readiness. Eril himself led the gathering circle, a bloodied knife in each hand and the matching daubs of close-quarters slaughter still on his face.
Ringil stepped nimbly over the man he’d kicked in the head, booted Snarl sprawling into the dirt as he passed her, and put the tip of the Ravensfriend at the legate’s throat.
“Drop it,” he suggested.
The legate’s sword fell out of his fingers. Ringil lowered the Ravensfriend and waited for Eril’s men to reach him. He met Poppy Snarl’s gaze where she lay watching him from the ground. Surprised at the quick pulse of hate it still generated in him.
Flushed with relief, the imperial legate decided on bluster.
“This—this is an
outrage
. Do you have any idea
who I am
?”
Ringil turned to look at Eril.
“Do we have any idea who he is?”
The Marsh Brotherhood enforcer shrugged. “Some Empire merchant fuck, right?”
“I am the Yhelteth Emperor’s direct, empowered legate to your countrymen!”
Ringil nodded. “He is, unfortunately. See that brooch on his shoulder? Yhelteth diplomatic seal. And I’m willing to bet he’s got—”
He grabbed up the legate’s left hand.
“Yep, the
Barely in time.
The Ravensfriend blocked like something alive, took the brunt. The sword chimed and quivered, his attacker’s steel glanced off it, turned the force of the rush a vital couple of inches. Ringil pivoted with it, flashed out a hand on instinct, grasped something, a buckle on a tunic, an edge of stiffened cloth, jerked the man forward off balance. The imperial plunged past him, stumbling. Ringil tripped him, put him down. No time to bring the Ravensfriend down for the kill—the others were on him—he settled for a glancing kick to the downed soldier’s head—
Sensed, somehow, the hurtling edge of steel at head height behind him—
Ungainly sideways leap—over the sprawled body, and just ahead of the scything imperial blade. He felt it touch his queue, flip the bound ponytail of hair, felt the cool wind of its passing. He landed awkwardly, breath caught up, only half convinced his head was still on his shoulders.
And whipped about at guard. Tight grin on his face with how close he’d come.
The remaining two imperials came on. The body of their fallen comrade slowed them down. But behind them, the legate had finally managed to draw a sword of his own, was brandishing it not entirely unhandily. And Poppy Snarl was on her knees in the dirt beside Irgesh, scrabbling for his weapon. Ringil felt the balance tilt, felt what he’d planned sliding out of reach, felt—
Straight-line crow-flicker black.
Like a mother hushing unruly boys, but impossibly swift. A rippled fleeting past him through the air, and the two soldiers slammed to a halt, spiked about with sudden, black-fletched arrow shafts. Throat and eye, chest and belly.
Eril’s men, taking no chances.
Yeah—took their fucking time about it, though
.
The imperials spasmed, gurgled, and went down, dead or near enough to make no difference. Puff and drift of dust up around theirbodies. The man at Ringil’s feet moaned and twitched, but showed no sign of getting up.
Ringil let his breath out. Surveyed his victory.
The legate, clutching his sword at an uncertain guard. Poppy Snarl, crouched beside her slaughtered march-master, blinking at what had just happened. And out among the sea of huddled slaves, Eril’s men moving forward. They wore the assumed garb of the march-masters they’d murdered in the night or the captured slaves they’d imitated coming into camp. They held an irregular assortment of weapons, stolen or already owned, among them at least half a dozen recurved bows drawn to a cautious half-taut readiness. Eril himself led the gathering circle, a bloodied knife in each hand and the matching daubs of close-quarters slaughter still on his face.
Ringil stepped nimbly over the man he’d kicked in the head, booted Snarl sprawling into the dirt as he passed her, and put the tip of the Ravensfriend at the legate’s throat.
“Drop it,” he suggested.
The legate’s sword fell out of his fingers. Ringil lowered the Ravensfriend and waited for Eril’s men to reach him. He met Poppy Snarl’s gaze where she lay watching him from the ground. Surprised at the quick pulse of hate it still generated in him.
Flushed with relief, the imperial legate decided on bluster.
“This—this is an
outrage
. Do you have any idea
who I am
?”
Ringil turned to look at Eril.
“Do we have any idea who he is?”
The Marsh Brotherhood enforcer shrugged. “Some Empire merchant fuck, right?”
“I am the Yhelteth Emperor’s direct, empowered legate to your countrymen!”
Ringil nodded. “He is, unfortunately. See that brooch on his shoulder? Yhelteth diplomatic seal. And I’m willing to bet he’s got—”
He grabbed up the legate’s left hand.
“Yep, the
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