making a benevolent link.
‘Good,’ she replied dryly. Jabbing her sword at the table, she repeated, ‘The ramp’s illegal. By the authority vested in me by the government of Gath Tampoor –’
They burst into scornful laughter.
‘Save your breath for dying,’ the leader grated.
‘Right,’ she agreed, favouring them with a smile. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
They moved. She was quicker.
Wrenching her hand free, she flung its load at the knot of bandits on her right. A score of barbed throwing stars soared in their direction.
Three were real. The charm was so good, she didn’t know which ones.
Nor did her targets. They were in a confusion of dodging, blundering, shielding themselves as the stars flashed in. Most burst harmlessly on impact, vanishing silver blooms against their bodies and the surrounding jumble.
Razor-sharp reality was another thing.
A genuine star cleaved the throat of the middle bandit, spraying blood and felling him. His cohort to the right, batting at illusions, caught a star in the cheek. The third man, shoving from the left, was drizzled by plaster as the last genuine star struck the wall above. A gory scrum ensued.
That was the end of her spells. Now blades would settle the issue.
The leader was roaring orders, and the man on Serrah’s left was closing in. She swiftly drew a knife to augment her sword.
The bandit came at her with a whipping scimitar and she blocked it with a cross from her knife that jolted them both. At the same time she wielded her sword in a low, curving slash, aiming for his vitals. He deflected it, just, and sent out his own pass. Serrah parried, retreating a step.
There was no time and the odds were too long. She powered in again.
Working her blades in unison, she rapped aside his scimitar. Her follow-through employed the knife, laying open his sword arm. Howling and swearing, he pulled back, wound gushing. Serrah charged him. Still clutching his sword, he tried to fend her off. She swept away his guard and buried her blade in his chest. Pitching, he jammed the path of the hollering leader.
Vaulting a shabby couch, an outlaw landed six paces away. She saw it was the man her star had narrowly missed, covered in plaster dust. Serrah took a swipe at his head. He ducked and kept coming. She beat at his defences, eager to down him before anybody else got to her. Stasis ruled for a moment, neither giving. Then, more by luck than by design, the tip of her blade scoured his jaw. Stumbling, hand to face, he crashed into the table and sent the ramp flying. Powder dispersed, a swirling white blizzard, and Serrah pressed the back of a hand to her mouth and stilled her breath. The leader screamed his wrath.
She had a glimpse of the bandit she’d wounded in the cheek, the star still embedded in the side of his face. He scrabbled in a corner, throwing crates aside. The racket from her men outside grew louder.
Her respite was brief. The thug with the copiously bleeding jaw disentangled himself. He and the leader attacked together. Checking the latter with a lashing cross, she focused on Wounded Jaw. He swiped wildly at her. She turned aside the blow, knocking his blade high and wide, then her darting sword took the opening and found his belly. He fell, a dead weight.
Blazing with ramp-quickened fervour, the leader piled into her. Serrah backed off, footing unsure on the debris. A breath later, she rallied. They churned metal, toe to toe, hacking and chopping. Breaching his guard, she dealt his stomach a hefty kick. He doubled over, mouth springing open. But he had the presence to keep his blade in play, impeding her follow-on. Serrah withdrew.
She saw that Gashed Cheek had almost cleared the crates, revealing the outline of a trapdoor. Now she knew why they could afford to linger. That split second of wandered concentration nearly cost her dear.
Raving incoherently, the chief snatched up a clay vessel and tossed its contents at her. She leapt aside, narrowly avoiding the shower of liquid. It splashed on boxes, fabrics and litter, seething and smouldering, billowing acrid smoke. A few spots of the vitriol peppered her hand and side, stinging like fiery needles. She clenched her teeth against the pain and kept moving. He stalked her, hurling obstructions from his path.
Her flight took her close to the bandit by the crates. Blood dribbled from the protruding star. He was on his knees, tugging at a rusting metal ring, and had the trapdoor raised about an arm’s span.
Serrah seized her chance and hewed his neck. Man and trap went down.
She was panting. Her muscles ached and sweat prickled her spine. But there was no lull.
The maddened chief caught up and unleashed a battering storm. They fenced hard, brows furrowed, hands blistering. Wrong-footed, Serrah had to vault when he tried hamstringing her. Her return blow missed, struck one of the tall braziers and toppled it. Burning coals bounced in all directions. Strewn rags and tattered furniture ignited. A dozen small fires broke out.
They battled on. Serrah stumbled against the prone Phosian and nearly fell. A stroke intended to decapitate came close enough to rend her collar.
A mouldering couch started to burn. Fire caught the pitch on a barrel, quickly leaping up the rest of the pile. Flames took hold of a window drape and raced to the ceiling. A thick, black haze began to fill the chamber. Serrah was thankful for her mask, though it did nothing to stop her eyes smarting.
Now stamina and nerve were all that mattered, and the duel became a slogging match.
A series of detonations rocked the room as pots and jars exploded on the blazing benches. The combatants ducked from flying pottery shards. Then an axe-head penetrated the door.
The concatenation of events threw the bandit off his stroke. Serrah homed in. Leading with the knife, she evaded his careless defence and raked his chest. He wailed, clutched the pumping lesion and, recoiling, crashed into an upended chair. Sprawled on the floor, he tried to hold her off. She dashed the sword from his hand and it bounced away, steel on stone, chiming.
He focused on her through pained eyes, and recognised the pain in hers.
‘Butterfly?’ he whispered.
‘This butterfly has a sting,’ Serrah told him, and drove home her blade.
She straightened slowly, short of breath, blinking from the smoke. Fire had taken hold on all sides and the heat was crushing. The back of her throat was grievously sore.
An axe cleaved the door again, and another joined it. In a cacophony of splitting wood and rending metal, her group broke through. They spilled in with raised weapons and taut bows, then stopped to stare.
Serrah got a hold on herself. ‘Report!’ she demanded huskily.
The foremost group-member tore his eyes from the carnage. ‘Er, nest cleared, ma’am.’ He looked at Phosian. ‘No … other casualties.’
‘Good. Now everybody out. Fast.’
He nodded Phosian’s way. ‘What about …?’
‘Bring him. Hurry!’
Arms across faces to shield themselves from the inferno, they ran to retrieve their comrade. Then Serrah shepherded them out, bringing up the rear. The passageway funnelled smoke, and they were all coughing and retching by the time they reached air.
Outside, the rest of her men were waiting. They set Phosian down and Serrah felt for a pulse. The band exchanged looks. At length she shook her head, though she had really known all along.
She took in the faces of her crew and knew what they were thinking. ‘I don’t like losing anyone,’ she said, ‘even a wilful dolt. But there are overheads in our work and this was one of them. There’ll be no indiscipline about it. The mission’s not done till we’re home.’
‘Of all the people to lose,’ somebody muttered.
Serrah