scrambled awkwardly to my feet, palms and elbows and knees all stinging from scrapes on cobblestones.
Unbelieving, I stared at what remained of Helda’s house. Emerald flames shot a hundred feet in the air. The whole building, from stoop to attic, blazed with an unholy green fire. I had seen its like before on the battlefield— sometimes hell-creatures hurled fiery missiles at us, and they burned with those same green flames.
The heat was incredible. From somewhere inside I heard a woman screaming. Helda—I had to save her!
I started for the door, but Dworkin caught my arm and yanked me to a halt. His grip had iron in it, and I could not wrench away despite my own great strength.
“Obere, no!” He had a crazed, almost desperate look in his eye.
“I love her!” I screamed. “I love her—”
“She is dead!” He had to shout to be heard over the roar of the flames.
Above the conflagration, the roof suddenly fell in with a grinding crash. Green sparks streamed up toward the night sky. The whole building began to sag, threatening to collapse inward as the support beams burned through.
I staggered back, imagining her soul flying up to the heavens. Ash and embers began a gentle, hot rain on our heads.
He had known, somehow, that this attack was going to happen. How?
Whirling, I grabbed him by his silk shirt and with one hand raised him a foot off the ground. It’s an impressive trick at any time, and over the years I’d taken the fight out of a dozen barroom brawlers by one-handing them into the air, then tossing them out the nearest door or window as though they weighed nothing. “Do you know who is responsible for this?” I demanded, shaking him. “How did you know the hell-creatures would attack here tonight? Who are you spying for? Is the king in danger?”
He broke my grip with a sudden toe to the stomach that sent me reeling back, gasping for breath. I hadn’t been hit that hard since the time a horse kicked me during the battle at Sadler’s Mill. Dworkin’s blow would have stunned or perhaps even killed most men, but I shook it off and came up growling, ready for a fight. My blade hissed from its scabbard as I drew it and pointed the tip at his face.
“I knew an attack would come against you tonight,” Dworkin said warily, staying beyond my reach. “But I did not know what form it would take.”
“And the king. How is he involved in this?”
“He is not… yet. The hell-creatures are searching for something. King Elnar is just in the way. Now, do not be a fool, my boy. You are alive because of me. Had I wanted you dead, I could have left you in the house to burn.”
I hesitated, looking at the house, unable to deny the truth. She was dead, my Helda, my sweet little Helda —she was dead, and there was nothing I could do about it now, except make an offering to the gods who guard the underworld.
Then Dworkin’s head jerked to the side and he stared, tense all over, like a rabbit about to bolt. In that second, I heard the horses too. There were perhaps a dozen, perhaps more, approaching fast. I pivoted, sword ready.
They rounded the corner and came into sight. The moon lay to their backs, but I could see the riders’ glowing red eyes and the fiery red breaths of their black steeds. They pounded toward us, swords raised, and let loose wild, gibbering war-cries.
Chapter 2
We must get our backs to a wall!” Dworkin cried, “Don’t let them surround us or we won’t last long!”
“Come—over here!” I sprinted to the house opposite Helda’s, a two-story stone building whose owners, like most of the townsfolk, had fled the coming war weeks ago. With the windows shuttered and the doors nailed shut, we couldn’t get inside even if we wanted to. Nor could the hell-creatures circle around behind us by going through the back of the house. It was a good place to make our stand.
I tensed, raising my sword, as the riders slowed. How had a band of hell-creatures gotten so far behind our lines? As soon as I returned to camp, I intended to find out, even if it meant stringing up every sentry by his thumbs for sleeping on duty.
Then, remembering Dworkin’s carriage and the passenger I’d glimpsed, I glanced up the street. His strange little vehicle had not moved, though its glow had, if anything, increased.
“What about your passenger?” I asked in a low voice. “Won’t the hell-creatures attack her, too?”
“No. They won’t bother with anything or anyone else until we’re dead. And if it comes to that… well, Freda can take care of herself. She will be gone before they get the door open.”
Freda. The name meant nothing to me.
I turned my attention back to the coming fight. “Use two blades if you have them,” I said, “and watch their horses. They’ll spit fire in your eyes and blind you if you let them get close.”
A year of battling hell-creatures made you wary or dead. I’d lost too many good men to their tricks.
Dworkin drew his own sword plus a long knife, and I pulled a smaller knife from my belt. Then the riders were upon us in a thunder of hooves on cobblestones, still screaming their savage war cries.
With the house to our backs, they ringed us in, but only a few could get at us at any one time. I found myself facing a tall rider on a true devil of a horse. As the rider’s flexible sword whipped through the air, trying to catch me with the razored barbs on its end, his mount also lunged, snorting sparks and snapping pointed teeth.
I parried, parried, and parried again, waiting for an opening. It was a weird dance by the light of the burning house across from us and the eerily glowing carriage at the end of the street. On the battlefield, I had seen men beheaded while trying to avoid the horse, or killed by the horse while parrying the swordsman’s blows. Fighting with two blades was the best defense for a man on foot. You could keep the horse at bay with the knife while concentrating on the rider.
My hell-creature opponent was a more than able swordsman. He used his height advantage to the full, raining down savage blow after blow, trying to wear me out or beat me down. Such an attack would have worked on a lesser man, but I set my feet and stood my ground. I had little choice—with a house to my back, I could not retreat.
The next few minutes became a blur as I parried, riposted, and parried again. Beside me I heard Dworkin grunt once or twice, and then a horse screamed and fell. In that moment’s distraction my blade slipped beneath my opponent’s guard and pierced his chest.
With a low gurgle, the hell-creature slumped in the saddle. I ripped my blade free. His horse screamed in anger and reared back, kicking with its front hooves.
I ducked to the side, gave it a good prick with the tip of my blade, and watched as it wheeled and raced back the way they had come. Probably returning him to their camp, I thought. Another hell-creature galloped forward to take his place, red eyes glaring.
His horse didn’t wait, but spat a jet of fire at me the second it grew near. I leaned back and batted my knife at its snarling face. Its teeth had been filed to points—a truly hideous creature.
Screaming a warbling war-cry, the rider rained down smashing blows and an intricate slashing attack that only served to strengthen my will.
Giving a roar of my own, I seized the initiative and attacked. He matched me ringing blow for blow. Then, with a quick feint and a nimble thrust, I pierced his right hand with my blade. His sword went flying. As he yanked on his horse’s reins with his other hand and tried to wheel away, I closed and struck three quick, sharp blows to the side of his helm.
That tumbled him from his saddle, and his ankle caught in the stirrups. I gave his mount a slap on the rump with the flat of my blade.
