Just as they passed through the gates, a flare of scarlet light bathed the night again. A weight swelled in Ōbhin’s stomach. He didn’t know what Dje’awsa could do. He was terrified he’d find out before dawn.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“There’s another one of them red lights flashing over the city,” Bran reported as he peeked in through the manor house’s open front door. The night’s fog bled in behind him.
Ōbhin rolled his shoulders, his chainmail creaking. His back only held a tenderness. When they’d returned to the manor an hour ago, Dualayn had produced a spare healer and soothed the deep wound before repairing the scratches to Avena’s body despite her objections. She wanted him to help their patients.
It was the last of their healing. If anything came tonight . . . And Ust will come tonight. That Black-cursed bastard is doing something out there, Ōbhin thought.
“Are there darklings prowlin’ the night?” Bran asked, his boyish voice breathless. The coat of chain he wore looked too big for his frame, like a child wearing his father’s armor.
“Something worse,” Ōbhin said. Something real.
“Elohm’s Colours,” Bran muttered. “Well, I thought you should know. I’ll get back to the gate. We ain’t seen nothin’ but fog so far.”
“He’ll come,” Ōbhin repeated. It was nearing midnight.
Bran closed the door and darted outside. Ōbhin turned. The few men on the staff who weren’t members of the guard held makeshift clubs found on the firewood pile. Pharon trembled, still wearing his stiff waistcoat and trousers. Unlike the others, he had a backsword strapped to his waist. Ōbhin did not know where he’d gotten the single-edged, straight blade.
Miguil stood near the butler, determination on his near-beautiful face. The intensity heightened his full lips. The other three were gardeners. The women were upstairs while Dualayn was in the lab. Ōbhin wasn’t sure if his employer cared that there was any danger. He had his patients to tend.
“You’re our last line of defense,” Ōbhin was saying. “I’ll—”
The stairs creaked. Avena descended dressed in her practice garb, a linen shirt tucked into her leather pants, a binder hanging off her belt. She wore flat-soled boots, her face set and ready. She gave him a warning look.
“Good, good,” Ōbhin said. “Avena’s in charge of the defense here. She’s got the most fighting experience of you all, and she’s seen what we’re up against.”
“Living corpses,” Pharon said, shaking his head. “Perish the thought that such horrors could stalk the night.”
Avena’s face pinched with revulsion. “You can’t even imagine.”
“Hopefully, none will get past me and my men,” Ōbhin said. “We’ll hold the gates, batter them down at the wall. If they do breach, you hold them off while the women go down the servants’ stairs and out the back door. The enemy shouldn’t find them that easily. They don’t seem intelligent. The women can swim across the lake to get to one of the neighbors’ houses.”
“And what about you?” Avena said.
Ōbhin shrugged. “I’m sure my men and I can figure something out.”
She gave him a studious look. Her lower lip quivered like she wished to object, sensing what he didn’t say. Then she nodded. “We’ll hold here. If they come tonight.”
“They will. They’ll want to hit us before we can get word to Grey. He’ll send help.” Ōbhin rubbed his black-gloved thumb across the emerald jewelchine on his sword’s pommel. He wished he knew how much charge it had, but there was no way to tell. He’d used it a lot this night. Would it last through a battle? “I wish I knew which street gangs in the city work for the Brotherhood and which work for the Rangers.”
Contact the wrong one, and they’d expose that Dualayn was under the Brotherhood’s protection. The rival crime syndicate would object, and they controlled more of the lands outside of the city walls.
“I’ll see you all at dawn,” Ōbhin said.
“Elohm’s Colours bless you,” Avena said. “And your guards.”
“May the Seven Tones resonate with us tonight,” Ōbhin said. “Strength in our limbs, Passion in our heart, Truth in our eyes, Life in our veins, and Breath in our lungs. May Father protect us and Mother love us through the Black night.”
Prayers to the Seven Tones said, he whirled and thrust open the doors. The thick fog swirled, a silver soup that choked out sight twenty paces away. He couldn’t see the gate or even a third of the way across the yard. He marched out into it.
The door closed behind him, snuffing out the jewelchine light.
Mist choked around him, caressing him with chilly fingers. His chainmail jangled and the leather of his sword belt creaked. The tenderness in his back swelled. He ignored it, focusing on the fog, searching for landmarks, the main gate.
Soon, the outer wall loomed out of the murk, but no gate. He’d veered off-course crossing the wet lawn. He looked right and left. The mist squeezed down on him like the dark mines beneath Gunya. A shudder ran through him at the memory of his cowardice. He could slip away. He could vanish in the fog. Ust and Dje’awsa would never find him. He wouldn’t feel the bloated grip of dead men wrapped about his throat or the skeletal finger bones clawing at his face. No silent hounds and rotten birds.
He turned to his right and marched to the gate, back straight.
Out of the boil of silver mist, the gatehouse appeared. A broad shape loomed in it, asking, “Ōbhin?”
“Yeah,” Ōbhin answered Fingers.
“Strolling the perimeter?”
Embarrassment warming his cheeks, Ōbhin grunted. “Just double-checking.”
“You don’t think them corpses can climb over the wall?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s comfortin’,” Smiles said. “We might be standin’ here playin’ twiddlin’ sticks while a horde of corpses stumbles along the lawn in the mist.”
Ōbhin grunted. “Not much we
