24 THE WOLF

24

THE WOLF

Domacridhan

Again Dom loomed at Corayne’s shoulder while she shopped, trading his Ionian coin freely as evening fell over Adira. The night market was lively, blooming as the sky darkened. In her haste, Corayne didn’t bother to haggle too much. She made sure Andry outfitted himself with a good sword and belt, and found a long, thrusting dagger for herself. The Spindleblade was still of little use, too unwieldy in unskilled hands. Dom had his Ionian sword, centuries old and Vederan-made, her steel as sharp as the day she was forged. His bow had been lost back in Ascal, so he chose another for himself and, after a long, begrudging moment, for Sorasa too. His was overpriced but well made, a double bend of black yew. It was not from his homeland, but the fine swoop of wood reminded him of the glens all the same.

After the weapons, Corayne drifted to provisions. Dried meat, hard biscuits, skins of fortifying wine, a pouch of salt, beans, a sack of apples. Things that would keep for the voyage.

And the desert.

Dom’s throat went dry. He could already feel the sand, gritty on his skin, stinging in his eyes. He was a son of Iona, born to rain, mist, and glens green with life. He did not favor heat and he disdained the thought of Ibal. The dunes like mountains, the sun furious and without mercy. Nor did he want to accompany Sarn to her home, where she would gloat over his discomfort, if not make it worse.

They returned to the Priest’s Hand in good time. Corayne had a head for direction, navigating the streets well. Dom felt a bit like a pack horse, laden with their supplies, bags slung over each shoulder. He expected chatter, but Corayne kept silent, shadowed in her hood. It worried him, to see her shuttered. Andry hovered at her shoulder, trying to coax something out of her, but she fended off all attempts at conversation with a few sharp words.

Her pace never broke, even in the crowds. She walked like something might catch her if she stopped. She looked back at the port a few times, her depthless eyes hunting.

No one followed us,Dom wanted to say, if it would quiet her mind. But even he knew better. The Tempestborn is here. Her mother’s ship, her mother’s crew. Every piece of her life until the moment I found her.

He might have suggested lingering a moment if there had been time, if the realm had not been relying on their next steps. Too many ifs to count. An overwhelming prospect for an immortal, whose entire life stretched into centuries of unchosen paths. Dom had enough ifs of his own to weather. He could not stomach Corayne’s as well.

Charlon and Sorasa were in the yard outside the Priest’s Hand when they arrived, surrounded by their horses and one very grumpy mule. The long-eared beast curled its lip as Charlon adjusted its saddlebags, shoving another sheaf of parchment into place.

“I expected more of a fight from you,” Dom said to him, “if the danger is as you say.”

The danger, of course, being just punishment for what seems like a great many crimes against a great many kingdoms.

Charlon grinned in return, patting the mule. “Got the feeling Sarn would slit my throat if I argued too much. And if Sigil does decide to come hunting, I wouldn’t mind seeing the pair of them try to kill each other. Neither would you, I wager, eh, Elder? Or do you prefer Veder? That’s what you call yourselves, don’t you?”

“I have little preference,” Dom replied in a brittle voice. He imagined leaving Sarn behind at almost every turn, but found he could not picture her battling a bounty hunter to death, and certainly not over someone as unimportant as Charlon Armont.

The forger was built like a young man squashed, with short legs and a round belly, his arms oddly long for his frame. Among the bags of parchment, quills, seals, and stamps, Dom didn’t miss the flash of a hand ax and a shortsword. Not to mention a wicked-looking hook on a loop of rope. For someone who seemed like an afterthought in a quest to save the world, he was certainly equipped to do it.

“I like to be prepared,” Charlon offered, following Dom’s eye.

“Good,” Dom replied. “But every turn of this path has been less than predictable.”

Every step from Iona, since the Monarch sent me forth into the harbinger shadows of coming doom.Dom nearly threw himself into the saddle to keep the memories at bay, jolting the horse beneath him. The cloak fell around his shoulders. It no longer smells like home, like clean rain and old stone.

The yard of the Priest’s Hand used to be a cemetery, but most of the gravestones had been torn up like rotten teeth. Now it served as a meeting square outside the market, teeming with traffic. Still Dom heard Corayne’s voice, low as it was.

She stood by the crooked fence, staring up at Sorasa, who was already in the saddle.

“The second Spindle is in Ibal,” she whispered.

The assassin leaned down to meet her. To Dom’s confusion, Sarn did not smile or even seem pleased. Her copper eyes clouded. She set her teeth. “How can you be sure?”

“I’m sure” was all Corayne said in reply, her voice like iron.

With her back to him and hood raised, Dom could not see her face. He judged Sarn instead, as her brow furrowed, her eyes downcast and searching. She faltered, looking for any misgiving in Corayne. Dom did not trust Sorasa Sarn, with his life or anyone else’s. But he trusted the assassin with her own survival. Sarn would not risk herself, not without cause.

“Fine,” she muttered, tightening the reins in hand until her horse tossed. “We’ll ride west, stop at the crossroads before finding passage over the Long Sea.”

Dom winced at the thought of another voyage, let alone one in such close proximity with this steadily growing band of shabby travelers. At least I won’t spend this one shoved below deck like a corpse in a steadily rocking tomb, he thought.

“We should get passage here,” Corayne hissed back. She glared over her shoulder for a second, once again looking toward the port. Her eyes flared. “There are ships enough.”

“You said before, you trust my judgment. Trust it again. We’ll head south within a few days, be on the sands as fast as the winds can carry us.”

There was something in Sarn’s voice that Dom had not heard before. In the many long days since he’d found her in Byllskos, she’d been frustrated, annoyed, weary, enraged, and mostly bored. Never desperate. She is desperate now, he realized, reading the carefully masked motions of her face. In spite of himself, the immortal knew her enough to note the pull of her lips, the hard clench of her jaw, the minuscule narrowing of her tiger’s eyes.

“All right,” Corayne said, spinning on her heel. By the time she mounted her own horse, the saddlebags full to bursting, her golden cheeks were moon pale.

Pale with fear or with frustration, Dom had no idea. Mortals are impossible to fathom, especially Sorasa Sarn.

He urged his mount alongside Sorasa’s as they trekked from the old cemetery. She didn’t acknowledge him at first, focused on checking her saddlebags too many times. He saw her whip, a great many flashes of steel and bronze, alongside small packets he vaguely recognized. A few were blue, some green, one of them a tiny square of black covered in Ishei writing. Clearly she had stocked up on supplies of her own.

By the time they reached the Adira gate, she huffed a sigh.

“Just say what you’re going to say, Elder.”

It felt like victory. A corner of Dom’s mouth curled into a smirk. He leveled his eyes on Charlon, swaying on his mule a few yards ahead, planted firmly between Andry and Valtik. He didn’t favor either for company.

Dom pointed his chin at the forger. “You’re using that young man as bait.”

It was meant to be an insult. Sarn took it as anything but.

“Catching on, are you?” she said, spurring her horse down to the marsh.

Larsia was a sea of tall yellow grass and gentle hills, the dirt too poor for much planting. As night fell, Dom’s eyes perceived the empty, sloping lands, without forest or farm, all but barren. The emptiness rankled. A pang of longing shot through him. He had never been so far west, the travels of his long life having taken him only to the Gallish border. His days were not well spent under harsher suns in distant lands, away from home. He ached for woods, for glens, for rivers swollen by rain and snowmelt. A stag beneath the boughs of a yew tree, its antlers indistinguishable from branches. The old gray stone of Tíarma, the proud ridge thrust out of the fog, her windows like glowing eyes. The Monarch in her silver gown, waving from the gate. Ridha, smiling in the stable yard, her armor cast away, her sword forgotten and unneeded.

Will I ever see them again?

The stars above gave no answer, veiled by cloud and doubt.

The Cor road was still too dangerous. They rode a dirt track instead, a path older than the empire, rutted by centuries of cart traffic. Every step took them farther from Ascal and the lands of the Queen. Even so, Dom felt Taristan breathing down his neck again, his voice hateful and gloating.

Shall I kill her in front of you too?

The leather of the reins cracked between Dom’s hands, threatening to tear. He wanted to do it, to feel something break that wasn’t his own heart.

The sun rose and the sun set and still they moved on, shadow-eyed and tired. The others dozed off and on, heads lolling with the rhythm of the horses. All but Corayne. Even as the hours passed, the dawn sliding into day, she did not sleep, her pulse disquieted. The sword was a gargoyle on her back, misshapen under the cloak. It made her slump.

Dom wanted to take it from her, to ease her burden. And claim what little of her father remained on the Ward.

It’s not for you to wield,he scolded himself sharply. He wished for Corayne’s questions or Andry’s gentle platitudes. Sarn’s hissing retorts, sharp and quick as the whip coiled on her saddle. Even Valtik’s rhymes, annoying as they were, would be better than his own thoughts.

There were no settlements but Adira this close to the border, all having been either razed or abandoned in the many skirmishing centuries. Dom couldn’t even spot a village or castle on the horizon. It wasn’t until afternoon, when the sun dipped toward the distant ridge of the Ward Mountains, that he saw a smudge far off, trailing smoke. A tavern or an inn, Dom knew as it came into sharper focus, the thatched roof and stonework chimney stark against the sky. It was shaped like a horseshoe, at the intersection of two tracks. A crossroads.

A mile off, the sour scent of beer wrinkled his nose. I do not think I will enjoy this, he thought as they approached, the sun sinking behind the mountains.

When Sarn ushered them through the tavern door, he knew he wasn’t wrong.

The interior stood in stark contrast to the empty road and empty landscape outside. All manner of folk gathered within the boisterous common room: travelers and merchants, priests and wanderers, crossing paths as the tracks crossed outside. Judging by the full stable, it was a busy evening, and the barkeep didn’t break stride when they entered, barely glancing over their strange party.

In this part of the world, where the east and west began to collide, it was difficult to seem out of place, even for them. An immortal Veder, a Jydi witch, a copper-eyed assassin, a royal squire, a criminal fugitive, and the pirate’s daughter, the Ward’s hope. What a mess we are, Dom thought as Sarn claimed a corner of the room.

Her glare and Dom’s bulk were enough to send a few patrons scuttling for alternate seats, leaving them a nook of space to cram into. Far too tight for Dom’s liking, so he leaned against the wall instead, feeling like a statue, wishing he could be one.

Corayne dropped her hood as she sat, planting herself in the narrow corner between the table and the wall. She braced her back, taking some of the blade’s weight off her shoulders.

Dom expected Andry to slide in next to her, if his stolen glances were any indication. Instead the squire sidled up to him instead, his expression gentle but shadowed with exhaustion.

“How are the ribs?” he said, glancing at Dom’s side.

The flesh had healed over and caused him no more pain. But he could still feel the knife between his ribs, tearing as it went in and tearing as it went out.

“Better” was all Dom could say.

Andry didn’t push and offered a tight-lipped smile. “You’ll have a hell of a scar.”

“The Vedera don’t scar,” Dom said quickly, without thought. Then he remembered his face, the long, jagged lines he would never be rid of. Weapons and monsters of the Spindles did not cut Vederan flesh in the way he knew. “Not usually.”

At least I’m not alone in these,he thought, remembering Taristan’s face again. The lines down his cheek, torn by Jydi magic and Corayne’s own hand. He has scars to match me now.

It wasn’t like Squire Trelland to fidget. But his fingers twitched and his eyes darted, not to their table or even to the bar, where any young man might wish to stray. Instead he eyed the stairway, bending up and around to the bedrooms upstairs.

“If you’d like to retire, no one will stop you,” Dom said softly, looking down at the boy.

As in Ascal, Andry was torn between duty and desire. The squire will march and fight and carry on until he drops. Until someone gives him permission to stand back, and be a little less strong.

Dom felt a burning in his chest when he remembered Cortael at his age, and his same dogged, sometimes misguided resolve.

“You’re no use to anyone half-asleep, Trelland,” he said, putting a hand on the squire’s shoulder. “I’ll be sure to wake you if any trouble arises.”

A wash of relief fell over Andry and he sagged, the last few days pulling on his shoulders. He gave Dom a grateful nod, and with only a single glance back to their table, fled the common room. Though the squire was mortal, he had a grace to him that most did not, even with lanky limbs and overlong strides. He dodged tables and took the stairs two at a time, disappearing to the next floor with his pack and cloak.

Dom turned back to their corner, satisfied with himself. “We should do the same,” he said to the others, now sprawled around their pitted table. “Rest is what we all need right now.”

Four cups were slapped down on the table, sloshing with ale and foam. Dom sighed, watching the mortals eagerly reach for their drinks. Charlon grabbed the first, downing it in one gulp. Corayne was quick to follow.

She glanced up at Dom over the rim of her cup. “It’s not just sleep he’s after,” she said. “I don’t think taverns agree with him.”

“A squire who doesn’t like taverns or barmaids or drinking on another man’s coin,” Charlon laughed, gesturing for another beer. “Rare as a unicorn, that boy. Not that I’m exactly clear on what that boy is bringing to the table, if I’m being honest.”

“Andry Trelland is the reason we have the Spindleblade and even a chance of saving the realm,” Corayne answered coldly, her Cor eyes inscrutable.

Charlon raised a hand in placation. “All right, all right. Cagalle’ansallouve?” he muttered, raising an eyebrow at Sarn.

Dom failed to hide a smirk. He did not speak Madrentine, but by now he knew that Corayne most likely did. With the same twist of her lips, Sarn met his eye, sharing his sentiments for once.

Corayne’s face flushed, her grip closing on her drink. “I can think of nothing more ridiculous than being lovestruck in times such as these,” she said tightly. “And if you’d like to talk about me, I suggest you do it in Jydi. I can follow in almost everything else.”

Valtik cackled merrily into her cup.

And Charlon laughed too, his face flushing with surprise. He laid a hand on his chest, blue fingers bare. “Well, m’apolouge.” He sounded truly sorry.

Unless he can lie to faces as well as he lies on parchment.

“So, why Ibal?” Sarn said, her voice sharp, turning them back to the great task at hand. As if it could really be far from anyone’s mind. She took her first gulp of ale and pulled a face, setting the cup aside with an Ibalet curse.

In the yard of the Priest’s Hand, she’d looked just as disgusted by the prospect of returning home. For what reason, Dom could not say. But I would do well to find out, before we set foot in the sands, and she brings whatever she fears crashing down on us.

“I heard enough in Adira.” Corayne darkened like a storm cloud, her voice low as conversation turned to the Spindle. “A pirate galley nearly sank in the Long Sea, on the Sarim current along the Ibalet coast.”

Charlon frowned. “Is that odd?”

“Something with tentacles tried to tear the ship apart. Yes, I’d say that’s odd,” Corayne said. Across the table, Charlon lost his jovial manner, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. “It had sailors from the Golden Fleet in its belly.”

“Worn to bones, worn to blood,” Valtik crooned, upending her empty cup. She motioned for another with wrinkled fingers. “A Spindle torn for flame, a Spindle torn for flood.”

Sarn gritted her teeth, frustration written all over her tensing body. I don’t blame her.

“Some months ago,” Corayne pushed on, ignoring the witch, “I heard word the Ibalet court had moved from their palace in Qaliram. Heading to the mountains. I thought it was nothing—strange, but nothing.”

“I heard the same.” Sarn nodded. “You think they knew something was wrong, knew long before any of us?”

“Ibal did not become the wealthiest country upon the Ward by being foolish,” Corayne said, nodding. “Taristan could’ve torn the desert Spindle before the Companions ever went to the temple. Or he did it soon after, racing south when Dom and Andry escaped. That Spindle has been open for gods know how long, spewing its bile into the Long Sea. Somewhere on the coast, or a river.” Corayne clenched her jaw, her eyes sliding out of focus as her mind left the tavern. It was obvious where it went, flying over waves and water. “I didn’t know there were sea monsters in the Ashlands.”

“There aren’t,” Charlon said, ruddy in the candlelight. “That is a burned realm. If what you heard is true, if creatures of the deep are coming through a Spindle and into the Long Sea . . .” He trailed off, eyes flashing. “You’re talking about Meer.”

A chill went down Dom’s spine, and he pushed off the wall, shifting closer to the table. “The realm of oceans,” he said, saying what they all knew. His brow furrowed. “But why would Taristan choose a doorway to a realm he doesn’t control? Beyond the influence of What Waits?”

“If he’s only tearing what he can find, then there’s not much choice to it,” Charlon answered, shrugging. “According to scripture, the goddess Meira came to us from Meer, bringing with her the waters of the realm and every creature below the waves. The truth of that remains to be seen, but the realm itself—clearly it’s real. And it’s here.”

Dom felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. He wished he’d paid more attention in his lessons half a lifetime ago, when Cieran had lectured the young immortals on the gods and Glorian, on the lost crossings to their realm and so many others. His mind had been in the glens, in the training yard, in the rivers. Not the classroom.

He shook his head. “Then Taristan does not care what he’s tearing, so long as it is torn.”

“Or he knows exactly what he’s doing,” Corayne broke in. “And he means to fill the Long Sea with monsters, cutting off half the realm from the rest.” Her fist clenched. “Ibal, Kasa, Sardos, Niron, their armies, their fleets. Any help they might offer,” she hissed, her exhaustion giving over to anger. “It’s a good strategy.”

“And weakens the Ward, no matter which realm he tears to,” Charlon said, heaving a breath. It was like throwing a heavy shadow over their number, darker even than the shadows before. “Every Spindle forced open is a balance unmade. An abomination to the gods.” His eyes tight, Charlon kissed his palms and raised them quickly, hands open to the sky. A holy gesture.

“You were a priest once,” Corayne murmured, eyeing his hands.

Charlon winked. “For a little while. But that vow of celibacy,” he said, grinning, “wasn’t for me.”

As the others laughed, Dom heard the creak of wood beneath heavy feet, felt the shift of air from a moving body. He turned to see a broad woman, nearly his height, striding across the common room.

She carried herself well, in boiled-leather armor and greaves, her boots knee-deep in mud, an ax slung across her back as easily as a cloak. The woman was of the Temurijon steppes, judging by the armor and her high-boned face, her skin a deep bronze like polished coin. Her hair was raven, cut short but still thick, falling over one brow. Her eyes narrowed, keen as a bird of prey, fixing on a single figure. She had the look of his fallen Companion, Surim of Tarima enclave, who rode half the realm just to die.

The room cleared a path for her, travelers pushing out of her way before she could remove them. Her face was known and respected here, if not feared. Dom stood to bar her way, but she stopped short, bearing a smile like a knife.

“A pity you went from illuminating manuscripts to forging them, Charlie,” she sneered, bracing a hand on her hip. Her fingers were scarred and knobbled, broken and healed a dozen times.

Charlon seemed unsurprised by her presence. He only shook his head again and reached for Sarn’s abandoned ale, pouring it down his throat. “Hunting bandits in the Forest of Rainbows, eh?” he sighed, tsking at the assassin.

“I suppose I was misinformed,” Sarn said calmly. “Sigil, have a seat.”

Dom stayed rooted, reluctant to let the strange woman anywhere near Corayne. Or to take orders from the likes of Sorasa Sarn.

Sigil, the Temur wolf, did not seem bothered by his bulk. She held her ground too. “Another time, Sarn. I’ve business with the Ink King.”

“The Ink King,” Charlon sniggered under his breath. “What a stupid nickname.”

Sarn took no notice. “I’m busy saving the realm, Sigil. Your business can wait.”

“Charlon Armont,” Sigil said, her voice drained of emotion, as if she were reciting a prayer at an altar, “dedicant priest of the Madrentine Order of the Sons of Tiber, there is a bounty upon your head, and it is my sworn duty to see it fulfilled.”

A bounty hunter.Dom looked her over again, trying to read the Ward on her. She must have been watching the gates, waiting for her prey to emerge.

“Now, to which kingdom is she going to drag you, that’s the question,” Sarn muttered with a half smirk. “Tyriot?”

Charlon kissed his palms again. This time it felt like a rude gesture, and Sigil bristled. “Nah, that was just a spot of illegal export. It’ll be the homeland for certain.”

The bounty hunter forged on. “You are wanted by the crown of Madrence—”

Charlon grinned, elbowing Sarn. “See?”

“—for trespassing, thievery, arson, destruction to holy property, forgery, banditry, bribery of a priest, bribery of an officer, bribery of a noble, bribery of a royal, attempted murder, and murder,” Sigil reeled off, in perfect intonation. “By royal and holy writ, I, Sigil of the Temurijon, have been appointed to return you to the court at Partepalas and see you face justice for your many crimes.”

The charges were grave indeed. Attempted murder. Murder. Dom was sorely tempted to get out of Sigil’s way and take Corayne with him. Not that she would go. Corayne looked like a child enthralled by a play, hardly afraid of anyone, let alone the fallen priest. She looked between them, owl-eyed, sipping at her ale.

The unremarkable Charlon seemed a bit more remarkable now, an odd gleam in his eye. His grin took on a shadowed edge.

Sarn crossed her arms, putting a foot up on the empty seat Sigil had refused. “I’m so glad I don’t have to recite anything when I kill someone.”

“Careful, or I’ll drag you in too,” Sigil drawled with little bite, her eyes never leaving Charlon. “Let’s go, Priest. Make it easy on yourself.”

“I think it’s you who want to make things easy, Sigil.” Again, the assassin tried to wave her down. Her booted foot tapped against the chair. “Take a seat.”

The bounty hunter loosed the ax, dropping it smoothly into her hand. “I’ll be taking the criminal and nothing else. Besides, I don’t think you have room for us all,” she added, running a hand through her short hair, sweeping it back from her face.

In the far corner, a man stood. He was, as the mortals would say, big as a house.

By the hearth, two men turned, though they could have passed for bears with their looming bodies and furry brown beards.

At the kitchen door, a cook with an apron smeared in pig’s blood stepped out, his carving knife clutched in a fist.

And so it went. The whole world fell silent, the travelers and merchants and weary nobodies going round-eyed at the brewing conflict. Six other men stood around the tavern, some on the stairs, some coming in from the yard. Armed and monstrous, big enough to put a lick of fear in anyone. Even an immortal.

Dom snapped his head back, looking to Sarn. Hoping she saw, hoping she knew.

The assassin wore her mask again, features still and unreadable, cold and unmoving as stone. She unfastened her cloak, letting it drop. Her whip coiled on one hip, the curved sword and daggers at the other. Her pouches of tricks ran along her belt. She met his gaze with that familiar, lethal flicker in her eyes.

Corayne tried to shrink back in her seat but found nowhere to go. She looked to Dom, and a plan already spun in his mind, a simple one: Get her out of here.

“I’m telling you the truth, Sigil.” Methodic, Sarn began unspooling her whip, her eyes passing from the bounty hunter to the men gathering behind her. “The realm of Allward faces destruction. And I need you to help me save it.”

“You should listen to her,” Dom heard himself rumble, drawing up to his full six-and-a-half-foot height. Next to Sigil, it only gave him a few inches, but he used them well.

She sneered up at him, taking in his sword. “You’re going soft, Amhara. Never knew you to need a bodyguard.”

Dom braced his fingers on the sword hilt. His grip closed. “I am Prince Domacridhan of Iona, a son of Glorian Lost. I guard no one but the Realm’s Hope.”

“This is a waste of time, Sigil,” Sarn sighed, drawing her dagger.

The bounty hunter faltered, only for a second, running her teeth over her lips.

“An immortal?” she said, looking to her hired thugs. “That sounds like even odds.”

Finally, Sarn stood. Next to her, Charlon did the same, the glint of steel wedged between his knuckles. Their chairs fell to the ground with a clatter.

Corayne pressed herself into the corner, her throat bobbing over the collar of her cloak. She balanced between fear and fascination.

Dom sucked in a fortifying breath. I just hope I am not stabbed again, he thought, catching the first blow of a hammer-hard fist. The thug behind him yelped as the immortal’s grip crushed his hand, snapping finger bones like dry twigs. He struck again, jabbing the man in the throat, leaving him writhing on the floor, gasping for air. That’s one of you sorted.

He went for Sigil next, but the bearded bears caught him around the middle, heaving with all their strength. All three went toppling to the floor, crashing through a bit of wall little more than thin wood and paint. Dom caught a glance of a naked couple in the adjoining bedroom, both of them shouting. Instinctively, he muttered an apology, only to have one of the bears put an arm around his throat. The thug squeezed, intending to crush his windpipe. It was a bit uncomfortable, and Dom forced himself to stand, lifting the man clear off the floor. He elected not to draw his sword and threw an elbow instead, catching the man in the center of his chest. The bone cracked under his force. Another.

In the common room, the other occupants of the tavern fled or joined in, some with ale in hand. One very old, very toothless man attempted to bash Sigil with a pewter tankard, but she swatted him off. Meanwhile, Sarn wound her whip around the ankles of another thug, using it to pull him off his feet. Her dagger was a snake fang, striking swift and lethal. Blood sprayed across her face while more stained Charlon’s hands. He didn’t have his hand ax, only a finger blade, a tiny triangle of steel. He punched with his fist, sinking the sharp edge into the cook’s eye. Charlon helped him slide to the floor, his lips moving quickly as he spoke a prayer in Madrentine.

The thugs were brutish, but poorly trained. Men who got what they wanted by standing tall and looking gruff. Only their number stood in the way, as did Sigil, who was easily worth the remaining five of them.

Sarn’s whip lashed out again, this time wrapping around Sigil’s armored forearm. The bounty hunter smiled her ruthless grin and pulled, dragging the assassin into her grasp. Sarn slid over the floor, her boots slick on the spilled ale, the momentum carrying her forward too quickly. She smiled too, using Sigil’s pull to her advantage. With the whip still in hand, she snapped back, leaping, both booted feet coming off the floor. They caught Sigil in the jaw, her head cracking to the side as boot met skull. Dom winced. She’s either dead or out cold.

Sigil of the Temurijon was neither.

She rolled her shoulders, spitting blood, her teeth painted a gruesome red. “Good to see you, Sarn,” she snarled, tossing the whip away.

Sarn rolled into a crouch, one hand braced against the floorboards, the other raised like a scorpion’s stinger, her dagger bronze and bloody. The black powder around her eyes smeared, running like dark tears.

Dom doubted Sorasa Sarn had ever shed a tear in her life.

“And you, Sigil.”

Before he could wade between them, a thug lunged at Corayne, still pressed against the wall. Dom threw the table clear out of the corner, sending cups spilling and rolling.

Valtik let the brawl break around her, unbothered as she sipped her ale.

The thug reached and Corayne lashed out, her long knife in hand, cutting in wild arcs as she tried to scramble away. A starburst of fear flared in Dom’s chest, only for a moment, before he caught the thug by the neck and tossed him to the floor.

The wild noise of the tavern was a storm, thundering with the rumble of breaking bones and furniture, cracking with the lightning of a shriek or a yelp or a cackle. Sigil and Sarn danced, each landing blows, but never enough to incapacitate the other. They had a familiarity. They knew weaknesses and strengths, and played to both. Sarn was quicker, more agile, but no match for Sigil’s brute force. They circled, Sigil pressing toward Charlon, and Sarn keeping her at bay. The priest spent most of the brawl praying, going from body to body, with little regard for the chaos around him.

“I think they’re enjoying this,” Corayne gasped, safely tucked under Dom’s arm. She watched as Sarn dodged a plate. In the corner, Valtik clapped her hands, delighted.

“We don’t have time for Sarn’s amusement,” Dom rumbled. He glared over the common room, brawl-battered, the hearth spitting smoke, the tables smashed, the barkeep cowering among his barrels, his patrons jeering along or using the opportunity to settle old scores.

Three of Sigil’s hired men remained, advancing on Charlon. They were white-faced, with thick necks and stupid eyes, each holding a hand ax.

Dom gritted his teeth. Sarn is still occupied, Valtik is useless, Corayne can barely swing a blade, and Andry is somehow sleeping through everything. With a sigh, he pushed Corayne to Valtik and set to ending this mess of an evening.

He did not enjoy violence. It was the skill, the challenge, the graceful arc of steel, the strategic dance in mind and body that drew Dom to fighting. In Iona, in the training yards, that was more than reason enough. There was artistry to it. Out in the Ward, there was purpose: blood spilled for a reason, and not spilled often. But then he’d seen more blood in the last year than he had in centuries, and it sickened him. He made their defeats quick, and he made them gentle.

The first received a single good blow to the head, which snuffed him out like a blown candle. The second lost the ability to stand, his knee dislocated. The third Dom caught around the throat, holding his arms at an angle, until his eyes slid shut and his heartbeat slowed.

“Enough,” Dom growled as the thug slid to the floor with a limp thud. “Enough.”

The rest of the tavern shrank away from the blond-haired, green-eyed behemoth in their midst. Some froze mid-grapple, fists raised and collars grabbed. The thugs still living groaned on the floor, inching away like worms.

Sigil and Sarn took no notice, the latter wrapped around the former, trying to squeeze the life out of the bounty hunter with her thighs. Sigil laughed, seizing Sarn around the waist, and threw her into the wreckage. Sarn landed hard, a hiss of pain smoking through her teeth.

Then Sigil was up against the outer wall, all stone, no give, Dom’s forearm braced against her throat, under her chin. He stared into her face, all his thoughts narrowing to one.

“Enough,” he said again, unyielding, even when she kicked him over and over.

Her face began to purple as he cut off her air, pressing harder.

Still on the floor, moving slowly, Sarn raised her head.

“I’m willing to trade, Sigil,” she said. Though they had won, the bounty hunter and her thugs incapacitated beyond measure, there was defeat in Sarn’s voice.

It sent a shudder through Dom and surprised the Temur wolf.

But it worked.

The bounty hunter gave a nod, as much as she could. Her legs dropped, her arms went slack. Dom stepped away, letting her find her feet. Her hand flew to her throat and she gasped, sucking down air. Her sharp eyes darted to Charlon, his stained fingers drawing holy symbols in the air over the cook, then to Sarn.

Sigil swallowed hard. “Let’s talk.”

In her chair, Valtik cackled, first in Jydi, and then in the common tongue they all knew. “Hammer and nail, the Companions are now seven, wind and gail, bound for hell or bound for heaven.”

By now Dom was well accustomed to the witch’s rantings, but he felt a shudder up his spine all the same.

The footsteps on the stairs were light, well balanced, barely a brush of feet. Dom turned to see Andry leaning down, his jaw slack and eyes puffy. He looked over the hurricane that was once the tavern.

“What did I miss?”