VIII

Without thinking, Arlian took hold of his sword hilt and drew his blade. With a powerful spin on his heel, his sword connected with the man near the doorway and the other on his right.

Both men cried out, and then the pavilion was a mess of sharp movements in the dark.

“Kill him!”

Arlian brought his blade down in an overhead strike, his sword cutting through something in a wet chopping sound that ended in a silenced scream.

Something smashed into him and he sprawled to the cold marble floor, his sword scraping loudly. He wriggled to get out from under the weight pressing him down, when suddenly, whoever was atop him grunted loudly and fell to the side.

Gracian grunted once, again, a third time as he kicked someone in the darkness.

Lady Jorrissiana screamed and Arlian scrabbled for his sword, picking it up and rolling to his back.

One of the Schuarists came at him with a club with what passed for a battle cry.

In the darkness, Arlian could barely make out his silhouette as he raised his blade in defense. The impact of the Schuarist’s blow against his sharp sword caused his club to cut in two.

Arlian kicked him in the shin. The man cried out and fell to the floor with him, but instead of using his sword, he backhanded the man with his armored forearm.

The man screamed, but the first blow merely stunned him, for his beaker protected him somewhat from Arlian’s blow. He repeated the process, the man grunting as he shielding himself with his arms.

“Off me!” Jorrissiana cried out. “I said off me, you lout!”

Arlian righted himself, grabbed the Schuarist assaulting her by the scruff of his neck in as steely a grip as he could. The attacker desisted his efforts and squirmed out of Arlian’s grasp. That’s when he brought the pummel of his sword into the man’s neck. It made a crunching sound and he fell, gurgling.

“We have to go!” Arlian shouted.

Jorrissiana made a sound, half gasp, half emotional outburst. With all the distractions, Arlian hadn’t noticed the incessant thumping, until he realized one of the hooded malcontents was repeatedly lading blows atop Jorlyn’s head and shoulders.

He wasn’t moving.

“Get off him!”

Arlian sliced the man’s arm off, a gout of black spray ejecting from his silhouetted stump and he screeched like a dying animal and fell back squirming and kicking.

“Jorlyn!” Arlian called. Without going to the man, he tuned to make sure Gracian was still alive, but the man was kicking his feet against the floor, a Schuarist atop him, his hands around Gracian’s neck.

Arlian walked to their side, kicked the Schuarist off of him and then drove the point of his blade into the man’s chest. He cried out and died amidst the moaning of his friends—one with a smashed face, the other with a missing arm.

As he pulled the blade free, the metal hummed with vibration. Gracian gasped, sat up and coughed hoarsely. Arlian went to check on Jorlyn. He nudged the man. “Jorlyn!” The watchman didn’t answer. “Jorlyn!”

Fuck. He was dead.

“Oh gods,” Jorrissiana moaned. “Oh good gods.”

“Get up, Gracian,” Arlian commanded.

The man did as he was told. Fortunately these dead and dying men didn’t receive reinforcements from their friends, who were probably now distracted at the bridge, any and all death cries believed to be the cried of their group and not the Schuarists.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jorrissiana suggested.

“Are you”—Gracian coughed—“are you all right, my lady?”

“I’m alive.”

“Jorlyn’s dead,” Arlian said plainly.

“Hells,” Gracian muttered.

“It’s time to go.” Arlian stepped out of the pavilion in a half crouch, moving as silently as his boots would allow.

Angry voices called out in the distance, but they had nothing to do with what had just happened in the pavilion.

Arlian’s grip on his sword was still slick, but with his gloved hands, he still had a solid grasp of his weapon.

“My lady,” Gracian whispered in a half hiss. “Stay close.”

“”I am. Do you take me for a fool?”

“No, I—“

Arlian whirled on them. “Silence.”

With the bloody sword in his hand, blood on his body from the spray during the slashes he’d inflicted, he must have looked like a mad man.

They shut up, and Arlian was able to lead them farther north-west where they found another bridge. The meadow and the crossing was deserted—only the pale light of Arunia and Felwyn visibly filling the darkness.

Crossing that bridge, they made it to the iron-wrought gates, their shadows cast darkly on the walking stones.

Slowly, they ventured out, glancing about their surroundings. There was a red glow in the distance, but the conflagration wasn’t visible from where they were. The smell of smoke hung in the air.

The fires were still burning.

“Stop acting so suspicious,” Arlian said.

Together, Jorrissiana and Gracian straightened. Arlian wasn’t sure it was much use, since he was still wearing watchman armor on his arms and shins, his bloody sword visible to anyone who bothered to take notice past half a glance.

It didn’t matter.

“It’s quiet,” Gracian said.”

“Mmm,” the council woman murmured, but Arlian could see her grasping her fist in an attempt to stop shaking.

Even he was shaking.

“We’re okay. There’s no rioting here.”

Jorrissiana glanced at him. “Are we safe?”

“I think so, but we won’t be completely safe until I get you to Headquarters.”

“What about your man, Brakso and the men he brought?”

“They’re soldiers—they can take care of themselves.” Of course, the statement brought the image of Jorlyn’s fresh corpse to mind, the sound of that club braking his skull, cracking his bones.

The statement wrung hallow to his ears, but there was nothing for it. Arlian couldn’t save Brakso and the other watchmen. They would have to find a way out of that mess on their own.

Or hold on until Arlian could send reinforcements after they made it back to the City Watch Headquarters.