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.