Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen 1)

He did not wait for them to acknowledge his words and walked around the side of Erasmus’s dwelling, watching the spatter of torchlight brighten from the front. The angry voices of a mob grew steadily louder.

Paedrin breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, short, quick breaths to steady himself. He listened to the raucous voices and the shouts of anger and demand. He could barely make out Dwyer’s voice, trying to turn the tide of anger. A stone or brick smashed into the front window. The shrill wail of voices grew louder. There was the sound of a door slamming and being bolted. But against such a mob, it was a flimsy defense. In a moment, the home would go up in a blaze, along with all the books of poetry and translations, a man’s work for many years. It was unfair.

Paedrin inhaled, and as he started to float, he ran up the side of the structure so that he reached the apex before running out of breath. He flipped up onto the roof, still holding the staff in one hand, and crouched at the edge, looking down at the mob. There were easily thirty or more down there, some with torches, others with lanterns. They were all Preachán, and they were a ferocious mob, shouting threats and insults at the lone man inside. One man stuffed a rag into his bottle of spirits and set fire to the edge.

Paedrin stood up straight, adjusted his neck muscles, and then hurtled off the edge of the roof. Someone saw him jump, for fingers were suddenly in the air stabbing at him. He plummeted to the street like a stone, but just before landing, he hissed in his breath to soften the impact and managed to land on the man with the flaming bottle and crush him into the street.

Paedrin looked up, taking in the momentary shock on their faces. Then he spun the staff in a wide circle and set to work.

That they were drunk made it almost too easy, but it was still forty or so against one, and he saw the gleam of knife blades, swords, and chains with hooks. He struck hard and fast, smashing a man in the eye with one jab of the staff pole before reversing the stroke and hammering another on the top of his skull, likely shattering it—using just enough force so as to not make it lethal. He cracked ribs, maimed feet, and, for certain, dislocated shoulders and hips. The anger and fury of the crowd—or perhaps the promise of coin—made them exceptionally brave. It was a hive of bodies, all trying to get a snatch at his clothes, grip his staff, or trip him with a boot. But Paedrin dodged every attempt, striking with feet, hands, or staff in all directions at once, sending bodies backward.

They rallied, those that could, and tried to crush him with sheer numbers. Chain whips whistled in the air at him. He ducked and darted to keep them from striking him, but he recognized that there were still more coming, and others were drawn to the screaming. Sucking in a gulp of breath, he jumped up and rose above the mass of bodies, letting them crash into each other before exhaling sharply and landing down amidst the pile.

He was wickedly good with his staff, and he knew it. It was an extension of him, and he whirled it against daggers and rapiers alike, returning each stroke with a whack to the chin or cheek; he dropped men to the street as his weapon impacted between their legs. He did not stay in the same place but moved with the flow of bodies, sometimes going over them. Sometimes he met the charge head-on. Sweat slicked down his ribs and arms, but he knew his own body and knew he had the strength to continue the fight.

From the crowd emerged a new man, and he recognized him from Kiranrao’s table. There was a subtle shift in the mood then others fell back, making way before the bearded fellow, his eyes molten with hate.

Paedrin studied his footing, his confident walk. No stumble with wine or drink. There was something in his hand that glowed like a firefly. As if he were holding on to a burning ember and it made his palm glow orange. It was a stone in the hilt of a dagger, and the blade was back near his wrist, underhanded.

The man moved impossibly fast. Suddenly he was right next to Paedrin, and the knife was slashing toward his ribs. Paedrin twisted hard to the right and clamped his elbow against the man’s arm, pinning it against his body. He felt a razor line of heat flash across his skin.

Eyes widening with anger, Paedrin dropped the staff and sent his hooked fingers into the man’s grimacing face. For a moment they wrestled against each other, each one trying to throw the other off balance. A boot went behind Paedrin’s ankle, and he knew in another moment he would fall. Rather than fight it, he released his hold on the knife hand and rolled backward, over the man’s shoulders, and grabbed his chin. He connected with the man’s elbow and hurled the man off his feet, slamming him on the cobbled street with a bone-jarring crash.

A flash of pain went across Paedrin’s side. Lights began to shimmer. He looked down at the man, his face contorted in agony, and he stomped hard on his forearm, enough to break the bones. He heard them snap. He twisted the dagger from his fingers and immediately the light from the gem winked out. It felt heavy suddenly, as if it weighed as much as a bag of gold.