“Not all.”
Kit sagged as Will severed the left‑hand restraint, surprised by Will’s strength as his friend hauled him to his feet. Kit looked up, trying to catch Will’s eye, but Will was moving hastily to free Kit’s other hand. “Not all?”
“I left a friend in the hallway …” Will’s sawing dagger parted the final shred of cloth. He glanced sideways as silver rang on steel. “Murchaud could use thy help, 1 imagine.”
Kit looked down at his naked, blood‑covered body, the short lengths of gossamer trailing from his wrists. At his fingers, swollen and raw. And bare of their restraining rings.
He smiled. “I don’t suppose thou didst bring me a blade, sweet William?”
“Alas,” Will said, and stooped slowly. When he stood, something long and dark speared from his hand: a length of twisted rod stock, drawn to a fine sharp point. It steamed slightly in the torchlight as Will reversed it in his hand and offered the looped butt to Kit. “Thy rapier, my love.”
It weighed more than a rapier, and would be useless for a cut. But the point was sharp, and the iron was heavy. He glanced over Will’s shoulder to where Murchaud fought Lucifer, falling back steadily before the Devil’s laughing, casual advance. Lucifer had drawn a blade from somewhere, a shadowy thing that flickered like his crown and rang like steel on Murchaud’s silver rapier. None of the others came near them; Tom and Ben stood back‑to‑back at the foot of the stairs, guarding Will and Kit. Ben still held the poker, Tom a brace of pistols. Between them they had three men at bay, a fourth one bleeding among the murdered ravens. Neither Baines nor Poley was anywhere in sight.
Kit snickered. The improvised weapon in his hand, the comfort of his friend at his side, were all the strength he needed. “Now all I need is a pair of breeches.”
Will pointed at a dead man, falling back a step. “That one looks about thy size.”
Lucifer’s dark blade struck sparks from a pillar as Murchaud ducked and cursed. Kit’s head turned. “And boots more‑so,” he growled, and sprinted barefoot and unclad over wet stones and slick mud to reach Murchaud’s side.
A moment’s eagerness for battle might race his heart and pulse false strength along his veins, but his long confinement had left him unfit and he knew it. Four steps down, a wave of vertigo caught him like a trap. He stumbled, expecting the hard stones on knees and forearms, the skitter of the iron bar on the tiles. There was shouting, nearby. The clash of iron on steel, blade on bar. Tom’s voice, Ben’s. A grunt, the sizzle of coals on wet tile as someone kicked over a brazier. Kit heard it all, scented, tasted. Pushed it away and dove.
And something caught him falling, a hard slap like wings cupping air, a jerk like a harness, a blaze of light around his hands and under his skin, silhouetting the crimson sigils painted on every inch of his flesh black on hot sunlight.
He sailed forward, the dark iron in his hand burning like a spear of light, a voice like a choir of falcons bellowing Lucifer’s name somehow rising from his throat, and everything a fury of gold‑barred black and searing light. “Behold!” Mehiel?
«Be not afraid, my friend.»
Except Lucifer straightened, that dark sword still in his hand. Kit saw through the haze of Mehiel’s wrath the edge smeared red with blood, the blade itself bottomless dark: a cut in reality, whatever lay behind it gleaming with silver motes like stars. “Murchaud, strikehim,” Kit cried in his own voice, but the silver blade was falling from the Elf‑knight’s fingers, and he was settling slowly, breathlessly back against the fluted pillar he stood before, both hands clutched across his abdomen and red welling through fisted fingers.
:Be not afraid: Mehiel said again, and–wearing Kit’s body like a suit of armor –raised his sword of light and purity to parry Lucifer’s blow.
But Lucifer barely tapped the blade, teasing, and stepped back, opening his guard to all but bare his chest. «Brother,» he said mockingly, «how it pleases me to fence with thee. Come, strike.»
His words resonated in Kit, and Kit shook his head, knowing that the words were meant for Mehiel. Mehiel, who knotted Kit’s fist on the butt of the poker and slipped steadily to the side, tapping lightly not at Lucifer’s breast but at Lucifer’s blade.
«Come,» the Devil whispered. «This is not stage fighting. Strike at me.»
And Mehiel did, but it was a wild blow and Lucifer deflected it without obvious effort. The angel in Kit said nothing, but Kit felt his confusion, his passion–
–his memory of Lucifer’s fingers lovingly carding Kit’s hair. Strike him!Kit urged, and Mehiel swung again.
Inadequate. And Lucifer did not strike back.
Mehiel lowered his sword and stepped away. «I cannot.»
Mehiel!
«I cannot,» the angel repeated. «I cannot strike. God forgive me. I pity Lucifer.»
Then let me strike him,Kit replied, and lifted the iron poker in his hand.
Come not between the dragon and his wrath.
–William Shakespeare, King Lear,Act I, scene i
Kit moved like a serpent, Will thought, and not a man. No. Not a serpent.
A dragon.
Will almost saw the massive wings that hurled him forward, didsee the halo of light that curled and flickered about his head and hands, the power and fluidity in his gestures as Murchaud fell and Kit lunged toward Lucifer. Will had just enough time to hear weapon crash against weapon once and then again before a hard arm clipped his neck and he found himself dragged backward, too startled at first to react.
“Master Shakespeare.” Robert Poley’s voice. Robert Poley’s broad‑palmed hand and rough fingers clenched upon Will’s jaw, stretching the tight muscles of his neck. He dragged Will backward, off balance, far stronger than Will. His other hand caught Will’s right wrist in a numbing grip, immobilizing the knife Will hadn’t had time to resheathe. “Do you suppose Master Merlin would surrender to ensure your safety? ”
“‘Tis possible,” Will admitted through gritted teeth, determined not to give Poley the satisfaction of hearing his fear. Foolish, he thought, as his heart raced dizzyingly. He bit his lips and let his body go slack, trying to roll and fall forward to the water‑slick tiles. Poley kept him upright with ease, his livery stiff against Will’s back, the ornate buttons gouging Will’s skin through layers of cloth. Lucifer was laughing, defending himself delightedly from the slender light‑wrapped figure who pressed him only tentatively. “But I do not think Master Merlin is in command, at present.”
“Pity,” Poley said, his grip tightening. At the foot of the dais, Will could hear Tom and Ben engaged in a passage of arms with whatever men remained. Poley sneered, still backing away, still dragging Will. “Then I’m afraid I have no use for you–”
Will heard another set of wing beats. Smaller, lighter, a cracking sound like paper shaken in the air. He ducked, bruising his throat on Poley’s thumb, and kicked back hard against the side of the other man’s knee just as something black and heavy barreled shrieking into Poley’s face.
Poley swore and pressed his face to Will’s shoulder, protecting his eyes. A good conceit, except his right hand’s grip loosened on Will’s wrist, and Will was ready for it. He ducked under the buffet of the raven’s wings and slammed the dagger into Poley’s right thigh. Poley staggered backward, fingers clenching on Will’s jaw, and Will clung to the dagger and let himself fall forward, shielding his face with his flat left hand.
Hot, raw‑smelling blood spurted, soaked his sleeve to his skin, sprayed his breeches and the back of his calf. He went to his knees and then forward as Poley fell.
The stones slammed the wind from Will, and somehow Will kept his dagger and rolled. He came up, saw blood fountaining, and backed away on his hands and knees until he was out of range. Somehow, the dagger remained in his hand. The pommel scraped on stone harshly enough to make him grit his teeth.