David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

Moira nodded sharply. “Of course not. You’re right.”

“Then we must move, albeit cautiously.”

Again Moira nodded, and she took the lead as she guided her Movers along the South Road.

The road to the castle passed by to the right, dark and ominous in the twilight. The structures around her became taller, more densely situated as she approached the center of the city. Now she could see actual people watching her from above, mostly women, peering out their windows. Moira didn’t focus on them, didn’t acknowledge their presence. She simply urged her mount to pick up speed.

They veered around Veldaren’s massive central fountain and continued onto the North Road. There the sounds of conflict heightened, and Moira could plainly hear actual human voices screaming. Her heart began to pound in her chest, and this time she allowed one hand to slip from the reins and grab hold of a sword.

She would clearly need it soon.

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and veered sharply to the right, bolting down an alley between a pair of boxy stone buildings. Moira didn’t think; she simply kept her eyes straight ahead until she exited the alley. Then she pulled up, forcing the Movers to do the same, their horses skidding to a halt on the slate walk. Danco nearly fell from his saddle. The screams surrounding them were all encompassing.

Moira’s eyes bulged in her head as she gaped at what lay before her. The alley emptied out into a wide square lined with smaller, more humble domiciles. She knew this place. The locals called it Haremdale, which many of those who had come from northern Neldar called home; it was a sort of city within the city, where those of like occupation and heritage could gather together and speak of how much more difficult it was living here than it had been in Felwood, Hailen, Winterhall, Stonybrook, and the like. It was where nearly every resident had hair the same color silver as Moira’s, with eyes just as pale blue. They would toil on the streets, sell furs and junk from the north, and laugh and drink their odd green wormwood concoctions in six small taverns. In truth, being here had always made her uncomfortable, for given the populace’s similar appearance to Moira’s own family, it was like being surrounded by an endless sea of Crestwells.

Now, instead of drunken songs, she heard shrieks and the clang of steel, and all that she saw was pandemonium. Also, there were men . Lots and lots of men. At least a hundred flooded the square, some exiting the buildings, dragging helpless women behind them, some clashing with other women. There were women fighting women as well. It was a flurry of swords and daggers that was dizzying to watch.

Gull urged his horse a few steps forward, gazing at the bedlam with cold, calculating eyes. They were off to the side of the conflict and had yet to be noticed. Moira followed the stoic man’s line of sight, and looked on as a grimy man ran a sword through a woman with short blond hair. She fell to the cobbles, clutching the gaping wound that opened her from neck to belly and crying out. The grimy man quickly jammed the tip of his sword through her ear, silencing her.

Rage built up in Moira, and it only doubled when she saw that Gull made no move to protect these poor women. The other three sellswords were just as passive, remaining behind their leader, awaiting orders. They were obviously itching for action, with their legs shaking and fingers clenching and unclenching, but they did nothing.

“What are you waiting for?” yelled Moira.

Gull shook his head and held up a single finger, his gaze returning to the battle in the square. Rodin shrugged in her direction, but he didn’t move otherwise. Another woman fell, and then another and another. Blood coated the cobbles.

“Caution is best,” said Gull.

It was the first time her sellswords hadn’t jumped at one of her commands, and her blood began to race. “Fuck off then!” Moira shouted. She kicked her horse’s flank, startling the beast and dashing forward, drawing both her swords as she did so. Gull shouted for her to stop, but she ignored him. Her screaming had caught the attention of the combatants. A group of nine men turned toward her, appearing confused. They were distracted enough by her rapid approach that two of them had their throats slit from behind by dagger-wielding women. The other seven were then jumped by women with fists flying, teeth biting, weapons slashing. Moira grinned and leapt from her horse, landing on an open patch of road, with both swords held out wide.

Hysterical sobbing reached her ears, and she turned quickly toward the sound. A gruff older man with a shaved pate was dragging a young girl by her hair out of one of the boxy brick homes. Tears streamed down the girl’s face as she kicked her feet and clawed at the strong hands that held her. The man pulled her up by the throat, growling something into her ear. The girl’s eyes bulged, and she started shrieking all the louder as the man continued to tow her along, heading for another of the side alleys.

Moira burst into action, ducking around individual skirmishes until she had a clear line on the man and his helpless quarry. The man never looked up at her, so intent was he on his destination. Moira kicked herself into a leap, spinning the swords in her grip so they pointed downward, and stabbed as she descended, hoping to skewer the man just below the base of the neck, as she’d done during the fight in Cornwall Lawrence’s estate. This time, however, she missed her mark. The girl stopped her screaming when she saw Moira, which in turn captured the man’s attention. He swiveled at the last moment, a shocked expression on his face, and then released the girl’s hair and fell backward. Instead of piercing the back of his neck, Moira only succeeded in slicing through the front of his filthy tunic.

She landed straddling the girl, who was now inching away from her would-be captor. The man reacted almost the same as she did, pushing himself backward on his rump while staring wide-eyed at the wound on his chest. Moira took a menacing step forward, preparing to lunge again as the man fumbled with the sword on his hip.

“Who are you?” he shouted, glancing all around him, as if hoping help would come. “Don’t you underst-”

Moira crossed her swords in front of her and then flung her arms outward, cleaving through the man’s throat. He clutched at the gushing wound and fell backward, blood spurting between his fingers. If any of the other combatants noticed, none came to avenge him. Moira pirouetted and rushed toward the girl, who was now on her hands and knees, hurrying away.

She grabbed the girl by the back of her thin shift and lifted her. The girl struggled against her just as she had with the man. A fingernail dug into Moira’s cheek, and she yelped and released the girl, who backed herself against the stone wall of the dwelling she’d been ripped from, panting.

“Hey!” shouted Moira, touching her cheek and coming away with blood. “I was trying to help you!”

The girl said nothing. Her eyes flitted from side to side, as if taking in the action going on around her, before she rushed back into the home. Moira sheathed one of her swords and gave chase.

“Come back here!” she yelled.

The door to the dwelling slammed in her face.

Something hard collided with her, knocking her to the side. Moira stumbled but kept on her feet, spinning and holding up her blade defensively. Her confusion was overwhelming. It was a woman standing there, one with a rigid jaw, short black hair, a scar on her forehead, and holding a curved dagger. The woman looked down at Moira and scowled, then rapped the dagger against the door that had just closed. She wore a bloodstained cloak, and when the door opened and she stepped inside, that cloak flapped, revealing legs wrapped in off-white cloth. Moira stared after her as she disappeared, remembering the letter the Conningtons had sent to Port Lancaster, in which they’d revealed that their many Sisters of the Cloth had been taken from them by Karak’s acolytes. Moira turned back around, gazing over the turmoil of battle toward the alley where she and her compatriots had emerged.