away its refuse and bile. Beyond the bridge, the canal dumped into Lower Punt, the island’s chamber pot.
Past Lumberry, Tylar had his trickiest traverse. Here the boundary between Lower Punt and the more stable dock-yards blurred. Taverns and wenchworks occupied every corner. Dark alleys crisscrossed blindly.
Tylar entered the gloom, and while shadows had always been his home, here there was no safety. The very air was heavy and thick, moving sluggishly, a fetid exhalation from Punt. It was a common lay for thieves seeking a quick slice and run or hard-pricked roughers looking for a bit of alley rutting, willing or not. Neither was much threat to Tylar. He seldom carried enough coin to be worth the effort, and his bent, scarred form hardly fired anyone’s loins.
So he hurried through these last alleys, already picturing his straw-filled bed. But as he rounded the darkest patch, entering a small square of derelict buildings, his feet suddenly stopped as surely as if he had run into a wall. A waft of scent had almost dropped him to his knees. Not foul, but the sweetest bouquet, lavenders and honeybloom, bright against the darkness.
It was silk and a child’s laugh.
Tylar stood, planted on the sandy stone of the square. How could he walk away? He doubted he could even be forced away. Tears welled in his eyes. The darkness scintillated with the sweetwater scent. All he could do was search for its source. What beauty could bloom in such shite?
Then a scream shattered the night, startling him back to the dangers that lay in the shadows of Punt. It was a man who cried out, and Tylar had never heard such terror, not in all his years.
There followed the bright sound of sword on stone. Shouts accompanied in chorus. Panicked. Close. The neighboring alley. Footfalls echoed, running away-
No… toward him.
Tensing, Tylar twisted around. He was momentarily unsure where to flee. Then a figure unfolded from the darkness before him. A silvered sword, held aloft in his hand, split his dark form like lightning. Above the blade, eyes matched the shine.
A Shadowknight.
Instinctively, Tylar knew it was not Perryl. The form was too broad of shoulder. The man dropped to his knees-not in supplication as Perryl had moments ago, but in prostration.
Tylar stepped toward him, a hand rising in aid. But he was too late.
As the knight’s body struck the street, his head rolled impossibly from his shoulders, bouncing obscenely to Tylar’s toes.
Slain…
Gasping, Tylar stumbled away.
Other bits of darkness fell out of the shadows. More knights, wrapped in masklin and cloak, appeared. They fared no better than the first, seeming to come apart at the seams. Limbs dropped away, bloodless but dead. Innards burst, pouring in tortuous loops from bellies. One knight collapsed in on himself as if his bones had suddenly jellied.
Horrified, Tylar fell back. What deadly Grace was at work here? He found his back pressed to the mortared stone of a burned-out structure. He huddled into a doorway’s alcove, seeking refuge inside, but the entrance was boarded tight.
Trapped, his eyes widened, seeking any clue, any answer to the slaughter. Something shared the shadows with the knights-but what?
Across the alley, a fog of light swelled between two soot-painted buildings. A glowing vessel flew into the square. It was a mekanical flutterseat, an open carriage held aloft by a pair of blurred wings. It bore a lone woman, crouched on the single seat. Other knights flanked the carriage and trailed it.
But one after another, they fell, afflicted like the others, until there were none.
Alone and unguarded, the carriage canted, struck the cobbles, and spilled over. Broken wings shattered against stone. The passenger, a wisp of a woman, flew free of the wreckage and landed spryly. She twirled in the center of the shimmering mist. A dance of panic and wildness.
Tylar was again struck by a swell of sweet-water scents, stretching from some distant spring. But now it held a touch of winter’s frost, too.
Fear.
Tylar knew the woman was the very bloom of this bouquet. She was also the source of the glow, a living lamp. The cold sheen of terror on her skin cast its own light. She must be richly blessed in Graces to shine with such power. Perhaps a noblewoman, or someone of an even higher station… Her dress was snowy finery and lace, her hair loose to the shoulder, as dark as her skin was pale.
Somewhere deep inside, he knew he should go to her aid. But he remained in place. He was no longer a knight, but a broken man. Shame burned as bright as his fear.
The woman fled to the center of the dark square, still dancing warily, eyes flashing with glowing tears. She was indeed powerfully blessed, rich in humoral Graces. The blessing of the gods flowed from her every pore, misting from her body as she whirled. But with whom was she dancing?
The answer was not long in coming. Darkness took form at the edge of her glow, coalescing out of shadow.
It stood upright like a man-but was no man. It was scale and snake and shattered teeth. A crest trailed from crown to whipping tail. As it approached, a mist of Gloom steamed from its skin, a contrary Grace to the bright glow of the lone woman.
She faced her enemy, stopping her dance. “You will not win,” she whispered.
As answer, a hiss of fire licked from its burned lips. There were no words, but a sound accompanied the flame, distant, yet still reaching clearly to Tylar in his hiding place. It pierced and ate at his will. His legs shook. He knew it to be a voice, but no throat could utter such a noise. It was not a sound that belonged anywhere among the Nine Lands, nor anywhere across all of Myrillia. It was a keening wail, crackling with lightning, laced with the scurry of dark things under the ground.
Tylar covered his ears, but it did not help.
The woman listened. Her only response was a paling of her snowy skin. Bone shone through. Her eyes dimmed. She uttered one word: “No.”
Then the beast lashed out, moving faster than the eye could follow. Darkness crested like a wave over the bright well of Grace that shielded the woman. Lightning flashed across the darkness, lancing out and striking the woman.
She fell back, arms outstretched, momentarily impaled between her breasts by the stroke of brightness. It was not lightning, Tylar realized, but something with substance… yet at the same time not completely of this world.
Pierced through the chest, the woman cried out, a wail of a songbird, sharp and aching.
The beast pursued, leaping. Darkness swallowed the woman away, rolling over her. Both vanished in the steaming gloom of the creature’s shadow.
Tylar held himself clenched.
Then like storm clouds roiled away by swift winds, the blackness swirled outward, becoming a tempest trapped between stone walls.
It struck all around, tearing at mortar. Glass shattered.
Tylar clutched the walls of his alcove, nails digging for purchase. He fought to hold himself in place, but he also felt a tug on all that held his spirit in place. His sight was taken from him-or perhaps it was the world that had been stolen away. He teetered at the edge of an abyss. His skin both burned and iced. His heart stopped beating in his chest. He knew his death.
Then he was let go. He fell back against the boarded-up door. Before him in the square, darkness roiled into a great vortex as if draining away down some unseen well. The darkness whirled, growing smaller-then it swept down and away.
Across the ravaged square, the beast was nowhere to be seen.
All that was left was the woman’s form sprawled in the center of the square. Her limbs still glowed, only weaker now. Rivers of brightness ran and pooled out from her form. Blood, shining with the richness of powerful Graces, flowed from her. She did not move.
Dead.
