He looked along the bridge. Four men were dashing across it. They were near enough for him to make out their uniforms. Two harbour watch, a militiaman and, alarmingly, a paladin. Further behind them, at the bridge’s opposite end, a bigger group followed.
‘Come on,’ he said, scooping up the second child, who was too frightened to object.
The woman seemed shocked, unable to believe she might have an ally.
They started to run, each with a child in their arms, aiming for the warehouses and the tangle of narrow lanes adjacent to the harbour.
Their pursuers clattered off the bridge and sped after them.
Serrah felt strange being on dry land again.
She was glad to see the back of the ship, and getting off it had proved easier than she feared. Looking around the harbour, she wondered what to do now. She knew no one in Bhealfa.
Getting away from the docks quickly was her first priority. Ports were usually well guarded, and she couldn’t expect the same luck she’d had leaving Merakasa. If it was luck. She began trotting towards the mean streets.
Turning a corner, she nearly collided with a small group of people. A big, bearded man in a cape and hat, along with a dark-haired woman, Qalochian probably, and a couple of kids.
They were agitated, fearful even, and for a moment she thought it was because of her. In truth, she must have looked a sight after being cooped-up on board for days. But she soon saw that wasn’t the problem. Somebody was chasing them, and these people didn’t look in a fit state to run much further.
Four men were homing in, swords drawn. Serrah recognised their uniforms.
The Qalochian woman gazed at her and whispered, ‘Please.’
The man said nothing. He didn’t look the running or fighting type. But his expression spoke volumes. The children were obviously petrified.
Serrah moved to stand between them and their advancing hunters.
The four men slowed at the sight of a bedraggled, wild-looking woman with her arms crossed, barring their way. They came on warily, blades lifted.
One of the two harbour watchmen took the lead. The paladin, who would be expected to take command in a situation like this, held back a little with the others.
‘Out of the way,’ the watchman demanded.
‘Since you ask so nicely,’ Serrah replied, ‘no.’
‘Official business. Move.’
‘Look, I don’t know what this is about, but -’
‘
Stand aside, bitch.’
She drew her sword in a fast, smooth motion. Everybody tensed. There was an intake of breath from the man with the hat. The younger of the two children, the boy, whimpered quietly.
‘Stick your nose in what don’t concern you,’ the watchman advised menacingly, ‘and it’s the last thing you’ll do.’ He edged forward and shouted to the others, ‘Come on, she’s only a fucking woman.’
Serrah instantly lunged and struck out at him. Her blade travelled in a sweep up his face, slicing through flesh. The man screamed, dropped his sword and pressed his hands to the gushing wound. His bloody nose bounced wetly across the cobbles.
‘Try sticking that,’ she told him. She looked demonic.
Shocked gasps and muffled screams came from the couple and their children. The other three armed men were equally stunned, but they held.
‘Move him!’ the paladin ordered, taking over. The second watchman pulled his wailing comrade aside. ‘And watch them!’ the paladin snapped. The militiaman did his best to stand guard over the family while not actually challenging Serrah.
His path cleared, the paladin came at her. Their swords met with an echoing clash. Serrah relished the sound. Her pent-up fury needed sating.
He was good. The combination of passes he sent her way was faultless. But his classical style, while impressive, was also a potential weakness. Those trained traditionally, as the likes of paladins tended to be, found it hard coping with unpredictability. Serrah had traditional training too, but her work with the CIS unit meant she also had street-fighting skills. It was the difference between fighting to win and fighting to win at all costs.
The paladin directed a low stroke at her legs, hoping to bring her down. Serrah rapped that aside and the pass she returned had him pitching backwards to avoid a gutting. She followed on, hammering at his blade frenziedly. He managed to hold her at bay, but only just, his smug expression vanishing.
In a matter of seconds Serrah had turned her opponent from attack to defence. Her next move was to finish him, and quickly. But a new element foiled her. Seeing the paladin stumble, the militiaman decided to join in. Now she had two foes to contend with.
His first couple of swipes showed that the militiaman had energy but little expertise. She parried them easily. For a moment she swapped blows with both men alternately and held them off. But deadlock didn’t suit her. With a series of wide sweeps and deep jabs she drove back the paladin. Then she spun to the other man and mercilessly hacked at him, to the extent that when she feigned an opening he took it recklessly. She knocked his blade clear, breaking his guard.
The gap was all she needed. Her sword sank into his chest. He staggered and fell.
As Serrah pulled away she glimpsed the family, huddled at the wall, horrified expressions on their faces.
The paladin was onto her again. After what he’d just seen he was fuelled by desperation. His strategy was simply to batter her into submission, and the way he dealt out steel verged on the careless. Serrah liked that. An unruly enemy was a gift. She soaked up everything he threw at her, letting him tire. When fatigue set in, she went for him.
While she pounded, Serrah was aware of the two watchmen. They were a dozen paces off, the wounded man sitting on the ground, hands to his streaming face. His partner knelt beside him. But he was staring at Serrah, and she thought he was about to move.
A crack from her blade prised ajar the paladin’s guard, and she would have finished him, but the second watchman chose that moment to spring at her. He came with his sword slashing in great arcs. She ducked a pass from her main opponent and turned to face this new one. Expertly she blocked the side of his speeding blade with the edge of her own. It ruined his rhythm and rocked his balance.
Another cross to the paladin kept him clear. With her full attention on the watchman she engaged again, targeting his sword arm. Two swipes skimmed his flesh. The third connected, ploughing the length of his forearm, spraying blood. He yelled in agony and his fist spasmed open, releasing his weapon. She thrust hard and pierced his heart. The watchman sagged and dropped. His injured comrade, one hand to his face, quickly crawled to him.
Serrah powered back into the fight with the paladin. If anything, he fought with more intensity, forcing her to retreat a step or two. She barred his onslaught and reversed the trend. They fenced back and forth along the lane, some of his traditional skills resurfacing. Their blows and counterblows fell like metal hail.
At last she drew him out with a fake offering of unprotected flesh. He gulped the bait, moved in, ready to eviscerate this mad, troublesome female.
She swerved, hammered his blade out of play and ribboned his chest. He shrieked, slashed wildly in her direction, and took the full impact of her follow-up. Her sword burrowed between ribs and ruptured a lung.
Spitting crimson to match his tunic, the paladin went to his knees, then pitched forward. He lay still, bar the twitching.
Serrah took a long breath. She looked to the watchman who’d lost his nose. He crouched next to the partner she’d killed. The man was frozen, transfixed by the sight of her. She walked over to him, gently swinging her sword. He cowered.
‘No!’
It was the big man, his hat comically askew. She stayed her hand, stared at him.
‘There’s no need,’ he explained, talking rapidly. ‘He can’t do us any harm. Leave him. Please.’