Page 87 of The Cruel Dawn
I step over his body and through the gates that these four dead men guarded.
No mosaic tiles. No lanterns on posts. No stalls of fresh produce. But in Beaminster, there’s plenty to drink—fumes of rum and ale waft off the drunken men who rush toward me.
I smirk at the men’s tunics and Wake’s leopard sigil. So much for peace, piety, and progress.
Several drunken soldiers—not one of them sober enough to fight—pull their swords and call me names: harridan, whore, every slur they can think of.
I spot a sword with an intricate iron handle and hilt—this blade looks well-cared for. Unfortunately, the man who stole this sword from its original owner stumbles and impales himself.
Two more guards race toward me with less impressive swords but more assured movements. They fight without commitment or expertise.
Then someone’s blade nicks my left cheek. I scowl at them.
The woman has a helmet of thick black hair. She smiles, pleased to see a pebble of my blood on the tip of her bright silver blade.
“Good job,” I say. Then I drive Justice through one cheek and out the other.
The men try their best; a few succeed in breaking their swords against my armor. The remaining soldiers stumble away from me, sober enough now to understand that though I bleed, I will not fail. I’m unlike any opponent they’ve ever—
Something heavy slams into my back, sending me sprawling face-first into the ground. All the air leaves my lungs, and my back feels like shattered glass. My ears ring, and I see two of everything, and then six, and then my vision blurs with tears. I hear cheering, but they sound worlds away.
Maybe I fucked up coming here alone.
I turn my head, coughing as I move. High atop a decrepit inn, I see two guards load a catapult. That’s what struck me.
Now that I’m prone, the guards on the ground raise their swords again, intent on killing me.
Yeah, Idefinitelyfucked up.
I glance at the catapult again and squeeze my eyes shut.Get up, Kai! Get the fuck up!
They have a catapult and a legion of guards, however poorly trained. I’m just one person on her belly, seeing stars and hearing the roar of blood in my—
One man kicks dirt in my face.
I thrust out my hand and scream because my arm feels hot and broken. I manage to throw him skyward in a burst of wind.
Two more men rush toward me. My power blasts them away, too.
Lightheaded, I cry out as I get to my knees, thrusting wind at clusters of belligerent men on either side of me. They’re thrown against rotting wood carts and the crumbling walls of houses that should’ve come down seasons ago.
On the rooftop, the men load the catapult’s basket with a boulder.
Anger roils through me like volcanic steam, and now I see clearly again. My body vibrates with pain and anger. I want to be up there on that rooftop—
Pop!
I find myself on the rooftop, looking out at the roof of the tavern and the crumbling houses around it. Moths flit around my aching ankles, leaving behind glittery dust to mark my sudden ascent.
Spryte, bitches.
The soldiers who’d been loading the catapult stumble backward, startled to see me standing beside them. The catapult can’t help them now.
“No backup plan?” I ask.
I thrust my hands at these two men, sending gouts of flame at them and then at the fighters down below. I ignore the pain in my back and arms and fling balls of fire everywhere, until all is lost in smoke and silenced by the thunder of burning lumber.
No one moves because everyone is dead…except for her. Another woman wearing armor. On the ground, the lone survivor holds a bow, an arrow nocked and ready against her cheek.
