Darjon’s eyes narrowed above his masklin. His cloak billowed back to the waiting shadows. The edges of his form blurred as the Grace of shadow flowed into the knight, building toward a power that Tylar could not match.
Rogger noted the same. “Tylar! Here!”
From the corner of his eyes, Tylar spotted the flash of silver. The thief’s dagger. Without turning, Tylar lifted a hand and caught the flying knife. He flipped it to his other hand, keeping it low. A dagger was a poor weapon against the blessed weapon of a Shadowknight, but it was better than bare hands.
Tylar attempted to watch every muscle of his combatant, but shadowy Graces blurred lines and edges, fogging detail, making it difficult to anticipate an attack. Tylar had worn such a cloak for many years. It had been a second skin, as much a weapon as the sword.
But every weapon had a weakness.
Shadows built up behind Darjon, filling the archway. Beyond, shouts from the castillion guard grew louder. The stamp of boots hurried along the parapets, approaching fast. Darjon merely had to hold Tylar here for a few moments longer.
But the Shadowknight would not settle for such a victory.
Darjon leaped forward with a surge of shadows that made it hard to tell where darkness ended and form began.
Tylar squinted, aimed, and tossed the dagger with the full strength of his arm. It flew true, but shadows shifted out of the way, too swiftly. The flash of the small blade passed harmlessly over the knight’s shoulder and away.
Unchecked, Darjon continued his lunge, sword leading the way, propelled upon a wave of darkness.
A distant thunk sounded as the dagger struck wood.
Tylar allowed a grim smile to form as he hurdled straight back, the sword’s point scribing his chest.
Then the plunge of the blade simply stopped, jerked to a halt.
Darjon’s charge turned into an uncontrolled tumble. He landed hard on the cobbles, tangled in his own cloak, betrayed by the very weapon that served him.
His sword bounced from his fingers and skittered across the stone to Tylar’s toes. Bending, but never taking his eyes from the knight, Tylar retrieved the weapon.
Darjon twisted, staring back toward the archway as shadows collapsed around him, dissolving under the weight of moonlight. Impaled into the gate’s wooden frame was Tylar’s dagger-and pinned beneath the blade was a snatch of cloth, the edge of Darjon’s shadowcloak.
Still entangled, Darjon swore and tugged, attempting to free his cloak, but it held securely.
Blessed or not, cloth was cloth.
Horns blared stridently from the castillion walls and were answered from the courtyard.
Tylar backed away, carrying the knight’s sword. The diamond-hilted blade was granted to a Shadowknight upon receiving his third stripe of knighthood. It was bonded in blood to the wielder, a cherished emblem of the Order. Darjon would miss it as much as his own right arm. Tylar motioned with his stolen sword toward the empty streets. “The guards come swiftly. We must be away.”
Rogger and Delia closed the distance between them, and as a group, they fled the heights of Summer Mount.
Tylar led the way swiftly, slipping along alleys and narrows, heading down from the high city and into the lower. The night stretched ahead of them, but dawn could not be far.
Mourners still crowded the lower streets, ringing bells, lifting tankards of ale. Tylar and the others slid among them, becoming harder to track. Here, any word of daemons and escaped prisoners fell on drunken ears, deafened further by the countless bells.
Even the horns chasing them grew distant, their blaring cries slipping farther and farther behind. Tylar suspected more than one guard was happy to let them escape, unwilling to challenge a godslayer and the daemon he could summon.
As Tylar donned a cloak stolen from an ale-soaked mourner, Rogger spoke in quiet tones. “You should’ve killed that knight back there. He’ll not rest until one of you is dead.”
Tylar scowled, picturing the bald fury in the knight’s eyes. “Mistaken or not, the man was doing his duty. I will not cut him down in the streets for that.”
Rogger shook his head, scratching his beard. “You may live to regret such mercy.”
“I’ll settle for living until the morning.”
As they continued through the lower streets, a sharp cry drew Tylar’s attention to a side alley. His step slowed. It was a woman’s cry. Two large men clutched a girl between them, their rough intentions clear. She struggled, sobbing.
Tylar knew these assailants. Frowning, he glanced to the sign hanging above the neighboring door-the Wooden Frog.
It was Bargo and Yorga.
Rogger stood at his shoulder. “Why have you stopped?”
“Stay here.” Tylar strode into the alley, sword low. It was time someone put an end to this pair’s tyranny over the weak.
Yorga held the girl in a thick-armed hug, while his partner fumbled with the ties to his breeches. Bargo was having trouble, too drunk to make his fingers work. But he blearily noted Tylar’s approach. “Wait your turn,” he slurred thickly. “You can have ’er after we’re done.”
Tylar recognized the lass, one of the Frog’s tavern wenches, no more than sixteen. She met his eyes, terrified.
He moved from the alley’s shadow into a slice of moonlight, keeping his sword beside his leg. “Should I be jealous?” he asked, stepping around. “I thought those pinpricks of yours stiffened only for me.”
Yorga focused on him. His mouth opened. Without a tongue, he could only gurgle his surprise.
Bargo swung around, half-teetering. He had finally managed to free his waggling manhood, flopping at half-mast. His eyes traveled up and down Tylar’s form. “You! The… the scabber knight.”
Yorga shoved the girl away. She landed on her hands and knees, crawled a few steps, then jumped up and fled in tears.
The two Ai’men bunched together, filling the alley, blocking the exit.
“There’s no Shadowknight to protect you now,” Bargo grunted.
“No,” Tylar agreed and lifted the blade into view. “But I do have his sword.”
The brawlers paused, clearly recognizing the black diamond on the hilt.
He leaped at them, moving with a swiftness borne not of shadow, but of fury and retribution. If it weren’t for these two, he wouldn’t be in his current predicament. None of this would’ve happened. All he had wanted was a pint of ale to celebrate his birth year.
Bargo tried to swat his sword aside, but Tylar parried and stabbed at the man’s flesh. Tylar sliced where it would do the most good, proving there was more than one way to cut a man down.
Bargo yowled, falling to the side.
Tylar spun on a toe and slipped between the two brawlers. Yorga grabbed at him as he passed, but Tylar easily ducked, escaped the pair, and backed to the exit.
Yorga swung around as Bargo continued to moan, sliding down the wall.
Tylar waved his sword in clear warning at the tongueless man. Unless Yorga foolishly pressed, no more blood needed to be shed. As a knight, Tylar had been schooled to use his head as much as his sword.
Yorga was clearly subservient to Bargo, his lack of tongue binding him by need to his partner. And with Bargo’s brutality plainly fueled by lust, it required only one keen cut to end this pair’s tyranny, altering their relationship forever.
“I’ve found you a new tongue,” Tylar called to Yorga, pointing to the severed manhood lying in the alley’s filth. “I don’t think Bargo will be needing it any longer.”
Bargo clutched his groin, blood welling between his fingers. Yorga stood, dazed.
“You’d best look after your friend,” Tylar finished and joined Rogger and Delia in the street. Horns could be heard in the distance. “Let’s go.”
Rogger glanced a final time down the alley. “Remind me never to get on your sour side.”
After another stretch, the trio left the streets and pushed into the black warren that was Punt. It greeted them with its reek, dark laughter, and sudden cries.