Blood and Honor

There was a splintering sound from above him, and the noise of more debris hitting the floor. He hoped that the roof wasn’t caving in, and continued to grope for an exit. Eventually he found a wall, and felt his way along it. His eyes stung from the smoke, and each breath was torture. He found that the smoke was less dense closer to the floor, and started to crawl on his hands and knees.

He found a break in the wall, covered by some smoldering canvas. He threw it aside and half-jumped, half-rolled over the stump of the wall, sucking in a huge lungful of comparatively smoke-free air. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve; there was more light outside the burning warehouse, but his eyes were watering so much that he couldn’t see any more than he had been able to in the darkness. Then there was a dull twang a little way off, and something ricocheted off the wall beside him. He knew the sound—a crossbow.

He rolled aside, running away from the sound in a low crouch. He kept the stump of his left arm in contact with the wall, and as soon as he found a corner, he ducked round it and pulled his elven cloak over his head. It took another couple of seconds for his vision to return.

When his eyes cleared, he found himself close to the open back door of the warehouse. Smoke was pouring out through the door, and through the high-set windows where the incendiaries had been thrown in. Watching the door were three dockside thugs, obviously waiting to attack anyone who came out. By some miracle, they hadn’t seen him—the combination of the twilight, the smoke and his elven cloak had worked in his favor.

Mordan threw his cloak back and leaped forward, drawing his rapier before he hit the ground. The three thugs were taken by surprise, and one was down before the others could turn to face him. A flick of his rapier and a second thug was backing away, leaving his sword on the ground and clutching a deep gash in his arm. Mordan adopted a fencer’s pose, his blade pointed directly at the heart of the third ruffian, and waited. For a long moment, the two looked at one another, then the thug swung his weapon. Mordan spun out of the way, delivering a back-handed slash to his opponent’s neck before he was half-way through delivering his blow. Blood fountained across the alley as the thug fell to his knees, then pitched forward on his face. The wounded one stared for an instant, then turned and ran.

From the corner of one eye, Mordan saw a blur of motion, and spun to face it. He found Tarrel in front of him—or rather, at his feet—coughing and choking helplessly. Looking up, he saw Brey’s dark shape leaping to the roof, which had already begun to burn. A second later, she returned with Solly. Hintram’s features rippled in disturbing spasms as the changeling coughed, his distress interfering with his disguise.

Brey motioned to the front of the warehouse and held up three fingers. Mordan nodded, and indicated that he would go counter-clockwise around the burning building. Brey went the other way; they would attack from both sides.

Reaching the front of the building, Mordan peered around the corner. Two more thugs waited, both armed with swords. There was no sign of the third Brey had indicated; the crossbowman must be under cover, waiting.

The two thugs stepped back as a sudden gust blew the smoke towards them. It roiled round their feet for a moment, and then billowed up to head-height, coalescing into a human shape; Brey stood behind them. She seized one grimy neck in each hand, lifted them off their feet, and smacked their heads together with sickening force. They fell to the ground like rag dolls.

A crossbow bolt caught her in the shoulder, and she turned with a feral snarl, ripping the bolt out of her flesh and throwing it to the ground. Mordan was already running as a figure burst from the shelter of the crumbling jetty, dropping a crossbow and diving into the river. Brey stopped on the bank, spitting with rage; Mordan sheathed his rapier and dove in. He surfaced close to his quarry, who was swimming hard but gracelessly away from the fray. A few powerful strokes brought Mordan level; then he grabbed hold of the man’s thrashing legs and dived toward the bottom.

The thug kicked and struggled, pulling a knife from his belt, but Mordan released his legs and grabbed his wrist, wrapping his left forearm around his neck in a choke-hold. Then, kicking upward for air, he put his full weight on his opponent and forced his head back under the water. He repeated the process three times before the man stopped struggling and dropped his knife, then he towed the choking and exhausted thug back to the docks.

Solly and Tarrel, now mostly recovered from the smoke, helped drag Mordan and his prisoner from the water. Brey was standing where he had last seen her, looking impotently down at the slow-flowing river.