The Nightborn by Isabel Cooper (howl and other poems TXT) 📗

Her circular kick to the woman’s elbow missed the joint but connected with a crack nonetheless, and from there it was only a smooth unfolding of her body to plant Yathana in her foe’s stomach and carve a path upward.

The crossbowman had fled, though, and that was far from ideal.

Three of the assassins were dead, another down and curled in on herself, and one fled. As Branwyn turned from her new position, Zelen ran the sixth through. He winced as he did so, but did a good job of it, and neatly ducked to avoid the long knives of the seventh. That brought Zelen within the assassin’s guard, which he took quick and thorough advantage of: a solid punch to the stomach, then a sword hilt to the temple.

“Your sense of range is excellent,” said Branwyn, after the man crumpled and she peered around to ensure that no more were coming. “Are you hurt?”

Zelen’s face was whiter than usual and his lips set, but he shook his head. “I was about to ask you the same,” he said, and then frowned, examining Branwyn with an intensity that made her glad of the darkness and his unaltered vision. “You gave me a rotten few moments there, you know.”

“I’m well,” she said, “but sorry. I’d imagine they were after me, unless you have more enemies than I was aware of.”

* * *

“No,” said Zelen. “Politics can be ruthless, but it hasn’t been deadly here in longer than I’ve been alive. Besides, I’m not much of a target.”

He bent to the man he’d just felled and felt his neck. The heartbeat there was steady. Later, the fellow might well die—knocks on the skull could do that—but for the moment, there was little that needed doing. Zelen rose and went toward the woman he’d crippled, who’d fallen silent and still when he’d been too busy to notice. Blood pooled under her leg, but she still lived as well.

The fabric of his cloak didn’t tear easily; he had to take his knife to it.

“Here,” said Branwyn, coming up behind him and holding out her hands. “A shame neither of us brought bandages.”

“Dreadfully negligent. What night on the town is complete without a bit of bloodshed?” Zelen passed his cloak to Branwyn, who drew it taut and held it for the blade. He cut a long strip of the fabric, then knelt down again and began to bind the assassin’s leg. The darkness was no friend to his endeavor, but he managed.

“This is nothing new for you, is it?”

“Bandaging, or doing it without a light in an alley when I’ve just escaped death? At the risk of ruining my reputation, I’ll give very different answers.”

Branwyn laughed, soft and smooth as always. “I was thinking the former,” she said, “though I’m no judge of your life. I’ve seen less skill from healers who’ve spent years at it—less from a few Mourners, in fact.”

“I’m sure you say that to all the men,” said Zelen, “but I thank you.” He tied the knot and got to his feet. The others caught his eye then, the ones beyond his reach.

The world smelled of blood and offal. He’d never before seen any of the people in the alley, but four of them had been people and no longer were. Zelen bowed his head. “Queen of the Dead, Mistress of the Flames, Letar, Who Is the End of All, we give these souls into your governance.” He still knew the words by heart, he discovered, and Branwyn joined him. “May their evil perish with their flesh, and may you in your evenhandedness best use what good remains.”

“So it is, and was, and shall be hence,” Branwyn added at the end, and shrugged when Zelen glanced at her. “A local variant, I expect. Thank you. That was kindly done.”

“It was what I could do.”

The pleasant tension from before the attack was gone. Branwyn was as lovely as ever, even bedraggled, but Zelen couldn’t have thought of pleasure in that alley, and she gave no indication of doing so either. Her hand lingered on Zelen’s as she returned his cloak, though, smoother than he remembered and oddly cool. He suspected that the fight had thrown off his perceptions.

“Have you killed people before?” she asked.

“No. Seen them die, yes, but never at my hand.” The weight of that was coming toward him, the dust of its progress already visible from the walls of his mind. “You?” he asked, and then recalled her obvious skill and felt idiotic.

But she shook her head. “Not people, until now. If I hadn’t been used to other creatures, I might have thought to try and spare these. Ya—a friend of mine would say that was stupid, and she might be right. It’s certainly pointless to regret now.”

“I don’t believe you have cause to regret,” said Zelen, and, on impulse, put an arm around her waist. “You likely saved both of our lives. And you were splendid doing it.”

“I’m sure you say that to all the women,” she echoed, “but thank you. And now—” She glanced at the wounded. “Where does one take captured assassins in this city? My information fell woefully short in certain respects.”

Chapter 13

Tinival had a shrine close by, which was fortunate. Branwyn was beginning to feel her bruises even before she and Zelen picked up the surviving assassins, and carrying a decent-sized man a few city blocks didn’t help matters.

It did render her thoroughly conspicuous. She could only be glad that the transformation had worn off by the time they reached any decent lighting, and that Zelen knew the way.

For a man who was entirely human, too, he’d fought quite impressively, and she hadn’t been lying about his skill at healing.

The company was even more valuable. At the end of the prayer, Branwyn had looked from the dead to the two that Zelen had managed to leave alive, and remembered all the comments about Sentinels that she’d never quite been supposed to overhear. Half a step