Aurora Rising (The Aurora Cycle #1)(51)

“Do not lift your head,” Kal says, his voice as cool as the drink in my hand. “But those Unbroken are headed our way.”

I do as Kal says, only looking up with my eyes. Half a dozen Syldrathi are making their way over to us, cutting through the crowd like knives. On the surface, they’re all similar to each other. Similar to Kal. Their long silver hair is bound in complex braids, their eyes are all different shades of violet. They wear an elegant kind of black armor, scratched and battle-scarred, daubed with lines of white paint that twist into beautiful letters in a language I don’t know. All of them are tall, slender, strong. Ethereal and graceful. And all of them have the same small glyf that marks Kal’s forehead.

The three blades.

But as they draw closer, I see each of them is subtly different—one has bones woven through his hair, another has what I realize are severed, pointed ears strapped across her chest in a diagonal line, like the world’s most morbid beauty queen sash. The tallest has a vicious scar cutting right across his handsome face. Each of them carries themselves the same—cold and menacing, radiating disdain, bringing with them the sense that they could descend into violence at any moment. I’d know even if nobody had told me—these Syldrathi are warbringers.

There’s a woman at the fore. Her pale silver hair is pulled back into a braid so tight it must be giving her one hell of a headache. Maybe that accounts for the extremely unfriendly expression.

“Human,” she says, addressing Ty. “I see you have a pet.”

“I have a squadmate,” Ty says, with a polite nod of greeting. “And he’s enjoying his drink right now, just like me. We don’t want any trouble.”

An unfriendly ripple goes through the Syldrathi.

“He has forsaken the rightful cause of his people,” the leader says. “He seeks the company of Terrans when there is work yet undone for all Warbreed. Until all our people are united under Archon Caersan’s hand, there is no rest, whether we will it or no. He is a traitor. Cho’taa.”

Behind her, there’s a rumble of agreement from her followers. Their eyes are narrowed, sparkling with hatred. Beautiful and ugly all at once. The woman leans forward, and slowly, deliberately, she spits on the table between Kal and Tyler.

“You should be careful he does not betray you next, human.”

“You do not want this, Templar,” Kal tells the woman quietly, not even looking at her. “Believe me.”

“Believe you?” She laughs, short and sharp. “You who have no honor? You who wear the uniform of the enemy?”

“We’ve nearly finished our drinks,” Tyler says, his friendly tone not budging. “Once we have, we’ll go our way, and you can go yours.”

“Will you?” says the woman, tilting her head as if he’s said something curious. “I see no path between you and the door.”

Kal’s eyes flicker to the woman’s, then away again. “Perhaps because you are as blind as you are foolish.”

Tyler glances at the other boy. “Take it easy, Legionnaire Gilwraeth.”

Kal goes very still for a moment, and the braided woman looks at him sharply. It feels like all the air has been suddenly sucked out of the room.

“I’na Sai’nuit,” she breathes.

Kal turns his head to speak to me. “Stay behind me, be’shmai.”

The woman looks incredulously at me. “You name a human be—”

Kal’s open palm collides with her stomach, his elbow with her jaw, sending her backward with a spray of spit and blood. He surges out of our booth, lashing out at another two Syldrathi and sending them stumbling away with bloody lips and broken noses. His opponents are caught unprepared for a moment, but then they come to life with snarls and shouts. Tyler’s caught flat-footed, too, but he recovers quick, rising to his feet and stepping to Kal’s side with his fists raised.

Problem is there are six of them, and only two of us.

Well, three, I guess. Counting me.

Kal’s still holding his glass, and he swings it in a lightning-quick arc against another Syldrathi’s head. It shatters, and the man falls, deep purple blood welling up from the wounds. Kal and Ty swing their fists, each aiming for a different Syldrathi. This isn’t like fighting in a vid—it’s brutal, ugly, savage. Their opponents stagger back, but the boys don’t follow up, staying with the booth at their backs, side by side, limiting the angles from which the others can approach.

Their fighting styles are totally different. Kal’s has a dark grace to it. For such a big guy, he’s perfectly fluid, and as he fends off a return punch, then delivers a haymaker of his own, it’s like every movement is choreographed in a deadly, perfect dance.

Ty fights more like an athlete. He’s fit and strong, and has good technique—even I can tell that. He punches, he kicks, and he hits below the belt when he has to. They’re all bigger than him. Faster and stronger. But even still, he’s fearless.

A third Unbroken is already on the ground at Kal’s feet, more of the pack surging in to replace the fallen.

Ty’s trading blows with his opponent, dancing back and forth like a boxer. Kal is swaying and weaving, saying something to his adversary that draws a snarl from the man, which Kal promptly ends by knocking out his teeth. The brawl’s now surrounded by a ring of bar crawlers who’ve gathered to watch. A part of my mind is busy watching the fight, another part monitoring myself—afraid I’ll feel myself slipping, that I’ll feel the gray closing in, that I’ll do something awful to defend them, something the whole bar will notice.