The Defiant (The Valiant #2)(49)
Meriel and I were the last, waiting out of sight in the gathering purple shadows as dusk gave way to a deeper dark and the first stars pricked their holes in the fabric of the sky. Antonia and Neferet, along with Leander and Arviragus, had gone aboard not long before. Now the wharf traffic was almost down to nothing, and it wouldn’t be long.
Meriel nudged my shoulder. “There’s our signal.”
“Let’s go.”
We were so close. A spear’s throw—less—when they came out from between the pillars of the merchant’s guild pavilion. A half dozen vigiles, all bristling with armor and waiting, clearly, for me to show before they made their move. We’d walked right into a trap.
“That one!” one of them shouted, pointing at me. “It’s her!”
We ran, Meriel turning the air as blue as her tattoos with curses. “I’m useless with only this bloody cheese knife!” she exclaimed, brandishing the little blade she carried as her only weapon.
Within a stone’s throw of the ship, three more vigiles stepped out from behind a stack of crates—blocking the way between the gangplank and us. Between freedom and us. Meriel skittered to a halt and turned to me, eyes white-rimmed. I drew my swords and offered her one.
She reached to take it—and then lunged past me, shouting, “Never mind!”
“Meriel!”
“Better idea!”
The docks were full of ships and boats and all manner of associated paraphernalia, including fishing gear. A neat stack of it: crab pots, nets, and a bundle of fishing spears. In the arena, Meriel fought retiarius-style, with a trident and net. The spear she snatched up had only two tines instead of the three, and the net was hung with bits of seaweed, but I don’t think she cared in the moment. She turned to jam her shoulder up against mine, and together, we faced the advancing vigiles.
As constables of Rome, the vigiles were tough and they were brutal, an effective force in keeping the peace in the city. But when they fought, they fought like thugs. A few of the senior officers were legion-trained, but the majority of the men who patrolled the actual streets, navigating the treacherous rivalries of the district merchant guilds and their gangs of enforcers, were simple brawlers. Big, strong, they outweighed and outmuscled us.
And two of them went down like sacks of grain the instant they attacked.
I didn’t have time to think about how it felt to have to wrench my sword out of human flesh again, twisting as I did to avoid slipping in the hot, red rush of blood that followed, painting the cobbles beneath my sandals. I only thought about the lives of the girls on the boat behind me. Of Sorcha waiting for rescue . . .
“Fallon!”
Meriel shouted and I ducked without thinking, slamming my knee painfully onto the ground and rolling over onto my back. The setting sun flashed red on the blade descending in an arc toward my head. I thrust out an arm to block the coming blow but suddenly the sword was gone, caught in the barbs of Meriel’s fish spear and swept aside. The blade flew through the air, and its wielder cursed and lurched after to retrieve it.
I sucked in a breath and scrambled clear of the melee, gasping a thanks for the save. Meriel grunted in response and grasped my wrist to drag me up to my feet.
“Down, Meriel!”
I shouldered her aside and slashed my swords overhead as the vigile behind her raised an axe over his head, screaming as he swung the weapon back for a killing blow. He screamed louder when he realized that he no longer had an axe—or an arm—to swing.
Another constable, maybe twenty paces ahead, hauled up short at the sight of his armless fellow, the look of fleeting horror on his face swiftly replaced by one of scorching fury. He brandished a short curved sword and charged at me. I braced for the impact of his blow, but it never landed. Instead, an arrow grazed past my ear and pierced his shoulder. The missile came from the direction of the docks—someone on the ship must have realized we hadn’t made it aboard yet and come up on deck to see the commotion—and it slammed into the vigile, spinning him around in a grotesque dance before he fell to the wharf, howling in pain. If Ajani’d had her proper bow, I thought, he wouldn’t be howling. He’d be dead.
Three more arrows flew in rapid succession, two of them striking flesh, and in a matter of moments, the circle of constables that had been advancing on me and Meriel had scattered in all directions. That earned us a respite to take cover behind a stack of empty wooden fowl crates. We crouched there, side by side, both of us gripping bloodied weapons and gasping for breath. I peered between the slats of a crate to see if I could assess our situation. The vigiles’ numbers had dwindled, but an alarum had been sounded somewhere, and the faint hope that Meriel and I would both make it to the gangplank unscathed suddenly vanished with the last light of the sun beyond the horizon.
The crack of a whip made us both turn back toward the merchant stalls.
I heard Meriel whisper an oath. And a name: “Nyx.”
Like winged Nemesis she came, soot-black cloak and midnight armor, thick lines of kohl circling her eyes like war paint. Teeth bared in a snarl, Nyx cracked her whip again. Her eyes scanned the deserted wharf, and she shouted for the vigiles who followed in her wake to cut off access to the docked ships. Another few moments and we would be hemmed in, with no chance of escape.
I moved to step from behind the crates, but Meriel grabbed me by the shoulder and hauled me back. “You walked away last time,” she said. “She’s not going to let that happen again. She’ll kill you.”