David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

His efforts proved needless. Moira plunged her sword in the chest of the fallen man, lifted her dress with both hands, and spun away in a blur of whirling cloth. Her would-be attacker passed through the space where she’d been standing only a moment before, tripping over his own feet and falling face first to the street, his dirk scattering across the stone cobbles. A crunch followed as his remaining teeth struck stone, and the man wailed in pain. Moira stopped twirling and looked down at the man before turning to Matthew with cold eyes.

“Finish him,” she said, and then she was off again, pulling another sword from beneath her flowing dress and sprinting down the road, where Bren continued his clash with the two remaining attackers.

Matthew slowly approached the prone man, who moaned and flailed as he searched for his weapon. Matthew kicked the dirk, and it clattered away. He planted a boot in the man’s side and rolled him onto his back. The face that stared up at him had been destroyed, the teeth nothing but bloody stumps beneath a nose that lay flat against the man’s left cheek. Matthew straddled him and sat down hard on his chest, pinning his arms down with his knees. He heard a cry in the distance, followed by another, and he knew neither belonged to his companions.

He finally found his voice.

“Who sent you?” he asked. “Was it Romeo? Cleo?”

The man issued a pained laugh. “Fuck…off,” he said.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Matthew said, leaning in close enough to smell the man’s rank, liquor-infused breath. “Tell me now, and your death will be quick.”

The man leered up at him.

“It will, huh?” he asked.

The man’s leg shot up, catching Matthew in the ass. He pitched forward, freeing his opponent’s right hand. The man reached for his side and the knife sheathed there. Panicking, Matthew stabbed without thought or hesitation. His dagger plunged into the assassin’s throat, all the way up to the hilt. The man’s body began to shake as he stared up at Matthew with bulging eyes. Blood spurted from the gaping second mouth created by the dagger, and then he fell still.

Moira and Bren were by his side in moments. Moira’s dress was splashed with blood, but she looked otherwise unhurt, but Bren’s left arm was bleeding. Matthew watched silently as Moira tore her other sword from the chest of the man she’d killed and searched all of the attackers’ pockets, finding nothing but a small sack filled with silver coins embossed with the fish and hook of Matthew’s own house. She handed the sack to him. Matthew sat there for a long while, surveying the five corpses spread out before him, and bounced the clinking pouch in his palm.

The bastards had been paid with his own coin.

“Who were they, boss?” asked Bren, panting.

Rather than answering, Matthew hurled the pouch as hard as he could. It opened, spilling the silvers down the street.

“Waste of good coin,” Bren muttered.

“Shut up ,” Moira whispered.

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Bren. “Boss, what’s the next move?”

Lurching to his feet, Matthew flattened out his blood-streaked clothes, took a deep breath, and then began marching down the road. Bren and Moira fell in behind him. He walked with purpose now that they were so close to their destination. He kept the bloody dagger firmly in hand as he went, constantly on the lookout for more who might wish to do them harm.

He took the path preordained by the letter in his pocket, moving through the fish-packing district, until he reached Rat Harbor, the poorest area of Port Lancaster. Whereas the streets were empty in the more civilized part of town, a few roustabouts still lingered in the streets of the Harbor. Drunk women staggered down alleys-haggard prostitutes who were useless now that nearly all the men had left the city. Matthew grinned viciously. All who saw their small, bloody crew gave them a wide berth. The only ones who didn’t were the young ladies who were already sprawled out on the ground, unconscious.

His destination came into view, an abandoned theater at the far end of Rat Harbor. Hard men, strangers to his city, guarded the entrance. They stood and drew their weapons when Matthew, Bren, and Moira approached, but then let them pass without a word of protest.

Matthew didn’t knock, instead shoving the door open with all his might. The heavy oak panel swung inward, crashing against the wall. Matthew hurried through, his protectors on his heels, walking into a wide room packed with tables and chairs. A sill filled with alcohol rested against the far wall, and casks of mead and wine were everywhere. The clamor of conversation ceased, as those inside, armed men just like those who guarded the door, turned their attention to the newcomers. They rose from their seats, every hand reaching for a weapon.

“Sit down, everyone,” a familiar singsong voice called out. “Don’t be rude. These are our guests.”

The men grumbled to one another and then retook their seats. Matthew stepped between them, head swiveling, seeking out the ones who’d requested his presence.

“Connington!” he shouted, fingers gripping his dagger so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Get the fuck out here and face me.”

“There’s no need for rudeness, Matthew,” that singsong voice said once more.

Moira grabbed his elbow, and Matthew turned toward the sound of the voice. From behind the curtain hanging along the rear wall of the tavern emerged two plump, bald men, the powder on their skin rendering them pale beyond death. Cleo and Romeo Connington wore draping frocks of crimson and gold, and their chubby fingers were adorned with expensive rings, each set with a differently colored gem. They were outlandish and horrific at the same time, and their high-pitched and melodic voices only heightened the impression. Matthew breathed deeply through his nose, trying to keep his wits against the assault of too much lilac perfume.

Romeo, the elder brother, tilted his head in a curious manner. “Why are your weapons drawn, Matthew? Do you wish to murder us?”

“Perhaps.”

“And to aid you in this endeavor,” said Cleo, the younger, “you bring a man with a wounded arm and a pretty lass with a sword. Forgive me if I am not impressed with your…um, army.”

“We only brought what you told us to,” Matthew shot back.

Romeo stepped forward, holding his hands out in supplication.

“Come now, Matthew,” he said. “Let us not be rash. You were summoned here in good faith.”

“Good faith,” Matthew growled. “Promises of food for a city in dire need of it. And you use that to try to kill me on the road.”

The brothers exchanged a look.

“That explains the blood,” Cleo said, shrugging.

Romeo approached him. “May I?” he said, lifting his frock to show he was unarmed. “Matthew, please think on what you say. If we wished to kill you, why wouldn’t we make the attempt now , when you are surrounded by dozens of our armed men? Honestly, if you believe we are behind the attempt on your life, I’m stunned that you would come here. Of course,” he snickered, “you did bring protection.”

“If not you, then who?” asked Moira, joining Matthew at his side.

Cleo’s smile grew all the wider-and more sickening.

“Could it be?” he asked. “Is this the lost Crestwell? We thought you had perished back in the delta. My dear Moira, you look absolutely ravishing. That hair color is quite fetching on you.”

“Yes,” added Romeo. “The Crestwell silver is…unsavory. Too shiny, too straight, too unseemly for a person of dignity.” He ran a hand over his own waxed and powdered head. “Hence our own decision to remain bald.”

“Dignity?” scoffed Moira. “What would you know of that word?”