Wings Over Talera - Charles Allen Gramlich [62]
One of the two had red hair. It was he who turned to sound a warning bell beside the door, and I hurled the dagger that I’d palmed in my right hand. The straight, flat, stiletto blade took the red head between the second and third knuckles of his fingers and pinned his hand to the wall.
It took a moment for the wounded man’s scream to gather, and in that moment I leaped forward, sword winking as I shifted it from left hand to right. The red head’s mouth opened and I cut him across the throat so that his cry was born dead in a foaming of blood.
The other guard lunged at me. I twisted to one side, heard the whiff of his blade driving past me, felt it scrape a sharp line of burn down my left side. I snapped my wrist hard across at my waist, my own blade humming as it cut through air to meet his. Steel raked on steel, knocking his sword well out of line with my body. He tried to recover. I didn’t let him.
My left hand flashed out, fingers locking about his throat, shutting off any chance he had of calling for help. Then I stepped into him and drove my blade up into his chest cavity. His eyes met mine, widened for an instant, shuttered closed the next as his legs went limp and I let him fall. He hit the deck with a soft thud, pulling away from my blade so that it slipped free and hung there at my side—dripping.
“Bravo,” a voice said from behind me.
I turned. Slowly. Standing there was the scarlet-cloaked officer of guards that I had seen before. Now, he unclasped the amber broaches that pinned his cloak at the shoulders and flung the garment away. By that act he showed himself to be a man proud and arrogant, convinced of his own superiority. A more cautious warrior would have saved the cloak for defense, to wrap around an arm to foil a stabbing sword.
Overconfidence was a weakness I could exploit.
I turned to face the man fully, took off my own cloak and tossed it aside. Then I removed my helm and let it drop. The man frowned. I gave him back a thin smile. He removed his helmet and set it down on a stack of cannon balls.
I did not know how this man had found me out. Nor did I truly care. I could see from the red-ember glow in his eyes, and from the swirl of his tattoos, that he was Vohanna’s minion. And for that I would kill him. But first, it occurred to me that I should make him pay—for Bryce, for Eric, for Diken Graye...for Rannon. Vohanna was the reason they were all lost to me. Perhaps it was time I took something of hers.
The man saluted me with a flick of his blade, then took a fencing stance. I did not bother to return his gesture. That irritated him. He was one who would demand respect, a proud man.
“I find little interest in hacking up more of Vohanna’s mind-controlled slaves,” I said offhandedly, lowering the point of my sword to the wooden planks and giving every appearance of leaning casually upon it. That appearance was a lie, but he did not know that.
He snarled. “My mind is my own. And I am no slave.”
“A lap dog, then,” I said, in an agreeable tone.
The man’s face flushed. “You will die for that.”
“Not today,” I replied, smirking at him.
Again he snarled, and lunged with his sword extended in a perfect line for my heart. His speed was incredible but his emotion had telegraphed his movement and my own blade flicked up, slapping his aside. I stepped right, letting his momentum carry him past me, and I cut him across the upper chest, leaving a long, thin furrow that bubbled red.
He pulled up, free hand rising to touch his wound, fingertips coming away sticky. I smelled the blood, sharp in my nostrils. The man met my gaze, incredulity written like Braille across his features. It was in his thoughts that I could have killed him with that stroke and had cut him instead as a deliberate insult. He was wrong, but I didn’t need to let him know that. Again I offered my thin