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Galena sniffed. “We’re close to the river. I can smell it.”
“Do we go back?” Valara said.
“Yes, and quickly,” Ilse replied. “We don’t want to spend the night in the streets.”
Especially these streets. She disliked their emptiness, and her hand found her sword hilt.
Her suspicions were confirmed when she turned around to see a shadow blocking their path. It was a boy, all bones and ragged hair. Scars stood out pale against his dusky complexion, and he had the scattering of a beard. He held a knife in one hand, its blade pointed upward. His gaze flicked over Valara, then settled on Ilse. “I saw your money,” he said. “Drop your purse on the ground, and you won’t mind what comes next.”
Ilse exchanged a glance with Galena.
“Thieves,” she murmured, drawing her sword.
Galena already had hers in hand. “Hungry ones.”
What happened next came so quickly, Ilse could not separate cause from result.
Half a dozen figures swarmed from the building on their left. Six or seven more blocked the street behind them. Most of them were older boys, but several were hardly more than children, and there was one girl with a swollen belly. All of them were skinny, their eyes like dark pits in their faces. All of them carried sticks and knives.
Galena slashed at the gang leader’s face. The boy flung his arm up and ducked away in time. The others charged. Ilse parried with her sword and backed up against the closest wall. All her old drill patterns came to her without thinking. Block. Parry. Block again and thrust. Twice she took hard blows that made her gasp and lose the pattern, but these were not trained fighters.
Merely desperate ones. Their numbers could make up for skill. One blow to her head, one slash at her eyes, and she would die.
She glanced around, trying to find her companions. Valara had called up a wall of fiery magic. A double signature hung in the air—the dark of a fox, the cold bright of starlight. Good. Ilse whispered the summons, but she needed all her concentration for the fight, and the current wavered.
Off to one side, Galena’s blade flashed through the twilight. The youngest of the children scattered. One boy fell in a heap, stunned, another boy dropped, clutching his stomach. “Run!” Galena shouted.
With a flurry of blows, Ilse drove through her attackers. Together she and the others pelted toward the next street. If they could gain a few moments alone, she and Valara might combine their magic. They skidded around another corner. Valara stumbled. Ilse dragged her to her feet, but the gang was already upon them.
Galena gave a shout for help. Several shutters overhead were flung open. They immediately shut with a bang. Ilse swung around, looking for her companions. A hand grabbed her by the shoulder and flung her backward. The gang leader, blood streaming from his face, swung his knife high to strike.
Five strangers burst onto the scene. Four plunged into the mass of boys, sending them scattering with blows and sword thrusts. One—a powerfully built man—leapt past his companions to seize the gang leader’s arm. His knife arced through the air. The boy crumpled into a bloody heap. But the man did not release his hold until he’d bent over the boy and touched his throat. Then he lifted his gaze to Ilse’s.
It was Raul Kosenmark.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
FOR A MOMENT, Ilse could only stare at Raul. Seven months. More than seven months since we were last together.
There was nothing of the lord about him today. His hair was tied back into a tight queue. He wore loose mud-stained trousers; dirty, scuffed boots; and a dark gray shirt that made him almost invisible in the twilight. Utterly plain. Very practical. He might have been a soldier, a robber, or a pirate. She wanted to walk directly into his arms and never leave them again. With a sickening effort, she controlled herself.
Raul sheathed his knife and came toward her in three swift strides. He touched her cheek as if to reassure himself that it was truly her, then glanced around at his guards and the street. “We should go at once,” he said. “There is a watch of sorts in the town. Eventually they will notice us.”
Only now did Ilse realize the fight had ended. The leader was dead, so were three of his companions. The pregnant girl sprawled on her back, groaning. Several others lay motionless. Ilse could not tell if they were dead as well, or unconscious. She glanced down at her bloody hands. Her shirt was bloody, too. She vaguely remembered stabbing one of the boys.
One of Kosenmark’s people pulled Galena to her feet. Galena looked dazed, her clothes were bloody and torn, but she was alive. Valara appeared untouched, unmoved, as she observed the scene. Ilse shivered at the blood and Valara’s indifference. Her own pulse beat erratically, and she tasted a sourness at the back of her throat.
I’ve killed a man before. Blood should not make me so squeamish.
A man, but not boys.
The warmth of Raul’s hand on her shoulder steadied her. He took a flask from his belt and handed it to her. It was good red wine, undiluted. She drank and felt warmth flood her body. She took a second, smaller swallow and gave the flask back. When he tilted his head in question, she nodded. I am fine. I will survive.
Raul turned back to Galena and Valara. “Are you wounded?” he asked Galena. She stood slightly askew with one hand held over her ribs.
Galena’s chin jerked up and she stared. It was his voice—a woman’s contralto voice from the throat of a man. Ilse could see the clues fitting themselves together from the girl’s rapidly changing expression. A noble’s accent. A man whose reputation had spread throughout the kingdom. Even Galena had heard of Lord Kosenmark. She straightened up with a wince and saluted. “No, sir. I mean, my lord. One of them knocked me in the ribs. It hurts, but not so bad.”
Raul smiled at her. His gaze passed over Valara as he turned back to speak with his guards.
