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

Branwyn threw her knife to destroy a demon and buy them time while Zelen picked up a young woman with her right leg in tatters. The guard helped a man with a badly clawed face to his feet and propped the man’s shoulder under his arm while Branwyn and the man with the poker smashed down the appendages that flailed toward them.

Their mission became a fighting retreat soon enough, when Branwyn stopped seeing human figures in motion. The demons massed around them, seeking the remaining prey outside the walls. By Branwyn’s estimate, at least six remained when the small group of rescuers and rescued made it to the side door.

It was the man with the injured face who hammered on the oak and shouted. Branwyn didn’t even make out what he said, for she was thrusting the sharp end of her branch into the middle of a demon, and the rustling sound of its death was overwhelming up close. She pulled her weapon back and ducked another creature’s strike, aware that the door behind her was opening and Zelen and the guard were going through with the wounded.

Cold brushed against her neck, feeling wet even with no substance. Branwyn ducked before the demon’s talons themselves made contact. They sliced open one arm of her dress from shoulder to wrist. The skin below was only scratched, but it felt as though she’d plunged her whole arm into an icy pool. She hissed and brought the branch upward. Close range made it awkward, but the blow took nonetheless, slamming into the demon’s “head” and bursting it apart.

A hand closed around her other shoulder—fingers, not talons, so she didn’t wheel and strike immediately—and yanked, pulling Branwyn back through the open door. She grabbed the handle on the way, slammed the door behind her, and then stumbled to a stop.

Unsurprisingly, it had been Zelen who pulled her in. Now he and what looked like everyone in Heliodar stood, in fear and formal clothing, staring at her.

Chapter 18

Claws made of nothing scraped against the doors and tapped at the windows. Those inside had done what they could by way of overturned tables, but the palace had never been made to withstand a siege. It showed, and all knew it. Zelen, doing what he could for wounds that didn’t bleed but also appeared too dead ever to heal, fancied that he could hear the press of demons even over the moans and the weeping that filled the room.

He, Branwyn, and their recent allies weren’t the only ones who’d rallied, though. Small groups stood at every possible entrance: guards with broken table legs, servants with long kitchen knives and platters, even one person who’d tied their sash around a heavy crystal vase and was swinging the result idly as they guarded their window. Near every two or three of the armed sentries stood one other. They held no weapons, but Zelen recognized a few and knew they were wizards.

Near the center of the room, Mezannith stood, draped in sunset-pink taffeta and carrying a jeweled sword. It was a relic from the portrait gallery, and neither the edge nor the balance was probably much to speak of—but Zelen had been fighting with a tree branch, so he was in no position to complain.

“You say you know these things?” she was asking Branwyn.

“Not socially, but yes. You might call them scavengers, bits of the darkness that were left over when Poram made the world. They’re not very bright—they don’t even properly exist as separate beings when they’re not drawn here—or much sturdier than a human, but they don’t feel much pain, and they can do a great deal of harm, as you’ve seen.”

Zelen had seen them dancing earlier. With an artist’s eye, he’d noticed the pleasant contrast between Mezannith’s curls, still more pepper than salt, and the bright gold of Branwyn’s hair. Now the pairing reminded him of patterns in temples: light and dark, fire and ice, air and earth, each deadly on its own and more so when balanced.

Either that or he was babbling to himself out of terror. He could believe it likely. “Fire?” Mezannith asked.

Branwyn shook her head. “They consume heat. Iron, silver, magic, or things that had life in them are good. Failing that, hit them hard enough and they’ll leave the world—though I suppose that’s true of most things, in a way.”

“We could wait for the city guards, in that case,” said Mezannith, tapping her fingers against the skirt of her gown, “but I’d just as soon not. Too much danger of the demons getting bored and seeking other prey, or of some poor soul wandering in unsuspecting. How many did you leave out there?”

“Five was my count, assuming they all converged on us. I’m reasonably certain we could handle them if we have that many to go out as a purely fighting force.”

“Count magic in that number, and we certainly do. You and I should take point—”

The conversation turned into a discussion of tactics. Others entered into it—one of the nearby mages and the guard who had joined Zelen and Branwyn’s party among them—but many of those in the ballroom simply stood well away and gawked. Branwyn was the center of their attention, and that held as much fear as it did admiration.

“…Criwathi woman,” said someone, only slightly hushed and more than a shade accusatory. “Made no secret of being a soldier, but…”

Zelen didn’t search for the speaker. No response on his part would help Branwyn’s cause. He had other matters at hand.

He tied the last knot in a tablecloth-turned-bandage, then checked his patient’s heartbeat. It was steady enough. They’d probably live, though their arm would always be missing a patch of flesh.

A mage who wasn’t guarding doors or windows was holding some of the most badly injured in stasis until a Mourner could arrive and repair them. Her skin was paper white, and beads of sweat ran down her forehead to her