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?”
25
TEARS OF A GODDESS
Erida
Erida expected nightmares. Some judgment, from the gods or her inner self. Remorse or regret for her choice. This was not just a marriage, but an alliance with a man she could not trust. But she had seen Taristan’s skin, cut by blade, healed in seconds. She had read the harried reports of her best scouts, their descriptions of his army like none other upon the Ward. And the hunters of the fleet had sent word as well. Monsters spotted in the Long Sea, creatures not seen for centuries, better suited to myth or the pages of a children’s book. Everything Taristan had promised, the gifts of the Spindles, had come to fruition. What she desired was in her grasp, closer by the second, with every Spindle torn.