Darkdawn. Jay Kristoff
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fellow made no sound.
“Forgive me, good Sister,” he said to the nun. “I am Centurion Ovidius Varinius Falco, commander of the warship Faithful. By order of our imperator, Julius Scaeva, I must conduct a search of this ship, and thus, your cabin.”
The girl kept her eyes to the floor in a convincing show of modesty, nodding once. “No apologies are necessary, Centurion. Please, conduct your search.”
The centurion nodded to his four marines. They stepped into the room, eyes to the floor out of deference, each obviously about as comfortable in the nun’s cabin as a real nun would’ve been in a dockside fightpit. Careful not to impinge too much on the good sister’s personal space, they began searching the chests, the barrels, knocking on the floors and walls in search of hollows. For his part, Falco kept his eyes on the big fellow in the corner of the room, but the figure remained motionless.
Cloud stood and watched, butterflies beating about in his belly. He could hear marines going through the other cabins farther down the ship, and none too gently by the sound. He wrapped his arms around himself, jaw clenched tight.
Colder than a real nun’s nethers in here …
“Forgive me, Sister,” Falco said suddenly. “I confess no end of strangeness in finding you in such … colorful company.”
“I can find no fault in that, brave Centurion,” the sister said, eyes still downturned.
“Might I enquire what you are doing aboard this vessel?”
“You may enquire, noble Centurion.” The lass smoothed down her voluminous robes, which were blowing in the breeze from the open porthole. “But as I informed the good captain here, my task requires utmost discretion. My Mother Superior bid me speak of it to none, not even our brethren in the Light. Upon my honor, I must humbly beg your forgiveness and maintain my sworn silence.”
Falco nodded, gray eyes glittering. “Of course, good Sister.”
The marines finished their search, turned to the centurion.
“The boy’s not here,” one reported, rather needlessly.
The centurion glowered once more about the room. But seemingly satisfied, if still more than a little curious, he bowed to the sister.
“Forgive our intrusion, good daughter. Tsana guide your hand.”
The sister raised three fingers with a patient smile.
“Aa bless and keep you, Centurion.”
“See?” Cloud grinned ear to ear, relief melting his insides. “All shipshape and aboveboard, aye, mates? Let me show you lovely gentles out.”
Falco turned on his heel, ready to leave, his men close behind. But Cloud’s belly did a small flip as the man came to a sudden stop. A slight frown appeared on the centurion’s brow as he stared at the girl’s feet.
Gray eyes glinted in the cabin’s dim light.
“My sister married a shoemaker,” he declared.
The Vaanian lass tilted her head. “I beg pardon?”
“Aye,” the man nodded. “A shoemaker. Four years back.”
“I …” The girl blinked, looking bewildered. “I am … very happy for her.”
“I’m not,” Falco scowled. “He’s thicker than pig droppings, my brother-in-law. He knows a great deal about boots, however. Has a contract with the Godsgrave editorii, in fact. Every guard who works the arena wears a pair of his.”
The centurion pointed to the bloodstained leather toes peeking out from beneath the girl’s holy vestments.
“Just like those.”
Several things happened in quick succession here, each slightly more surprising than the last. First, the lass shouted “MIA!” at the top of her lungs toward the open porthole. Which, all things considered, Cloud thought rather odd.
Second, she moved, flinging a knife from inside her sleeve and drawing a shortsword she’d hidden fuck-knows-where. The knife sailed into the throat of the closest marine, and as the man fell back in a spray of red, the lass lashed out at the centurion with her blade, face twisted in a snarl.
Third, the big fellow in the corner threw back his hood, revealing a corpse-pale face, eyes like a daemon and saltlocks like … well, Cloud had no fucking idea, but they were moving by themselves. The fellow drew out his two suspiciously sword-shaped lumps from beneath his robe, which indeed turned out to be swords.
Gravebone swords.
And lastly, and probably strangest of all, as the girl aimed a scything blow at Centurion Ovidius Varinius Falco, second century, third cohort’s cocky neck, a shadow shaped like a cat lunged out from beneath her voluminous robes with an unearthly yowl, followed by a rather alarmed nine-year-old boy, gagged and bound at his wrists.
For his part Falco was ready for the blow at least, drawing the sunsteel blade at his belt and speaking a prayer to Aa. The sword ignited with a shear of bright flame and he met the girl’s strike, his sunsteel scoring her blade. The lass yelled “MIA!” again, the three remaining marines cried out and drew their shortblades, Cloud spat a black curse, and before he knew it, the cabin was in chaos.
The marines were well trained, obviously used to fighting in tight spaces. But as they stepped up to cut the lass down, the big lad struck, his gravebone blade cutting through chain mail like a razor through silk and slicing one man’s arm off at the shoulder. Blood sprayed across the cabin and the man went down howling.
The big fellow wasn’t all that spry, though—he seemed unholy strong but stumbling slow. The third marine struck back, slicing his arm deep. And with a prayer to Aa, the fourth stepped forward and skewered him straight through the belly.
The big fellow didn’t fall. Didn’t even flinch. With one black hand, he grabbed the marine’s wrist, pulled the blade farther into his gut and the wide-eyed soldier ever closer. His other hand closed about the man’s throat. And with the snap of damp twigs, he twisted the fellow’s neck to breaking.
Good Sister Ashlinn and Falco were locked up, blade to blade, the bigger man pushing the lass back with his blazing sunsteel. But as he raised his sword, the sound of a thunderous explosion tore through the air from somewhere outside, shattering the other portholes and spraying glass and the bitter black stench of arkemical fire into the room. Falco realized the blast had come from the Faithful about the same time Cloud did, turning his head momentarily in the direction of his ship. And that moment was all the good sister needed.
Her blade tip connected with the man’s throat, slicing his windpipe clean through. The centurion fell back, fountaining blood, the boy on the floor staring in wide-eyed horror as the man’s not-quite-dead-yet body hit the deck. The cat shadow thing was tearing about the room yowling and spitting, the walking corpse had slammed the last marine against the wall and was choking him out barehanded, and Cloud Corleone could smell the most terrifying thing a captain aboard his own ship can imagine.
Fire.
So he did what any sensible man would have done in his boots.
“Fuck this,” he said.
And he ran.
Barreling down the corridor and up onto the deck, he was momentarily overcome by the sunslight glare and the stench of smoke. The Maid ’s deck was covered with crewmen, running to and fro at BigJon’s bellowed commands.
“Cut those bloody lines! Get those grapples out, you limp-pizzled lackwits! Wet down the damned sails! Push us away, you slack-jawed nonna-fuckers! Away!”
Cloud could see the Faithful was on fire—both her sails and her hull. Black smoke was spewing out of her arse end, which had been somehow blown apart. She was listing hard, taking water fast. Burning sailors and marines were diving into the sea, regular and arkemical flames were eating the wood,